The Reality of Dreams
by Nicor Warg-Fyrweorm
Summary: They fight for their lives while in safety, civilian and military entwined in a dance of politics that sustains an island of light in a sea of darkness, where Death lies in wait. This is their Reality. And then they dream. Suddenly, they answer to unknown names, talk words without meaning and remember what hasn't been. The problem is knowing when they are awake... and when dreaming
1. Wake up call

Soundwave hasn't even opened his eyes, but he already knows today is not going to be a good day.

Hints of his dream whisper to him while he gets ready, but grow fainter the longer he's awake.

By the time he puts on his sunglasses, the last thing to do before going to the mess hall to get breakfast, he barely remembers anything from it.

As he walks down the almost deserted corridors of the _Nemesis_, he brushes it away, even when the sight of those well known dark walls try to bring details back.

A dream is a dream, and that's it.

He brushes a non-existent wrinkle from the side of his uniform jacket and adjusts it despite it already being as perfect as it can be, using the familiarity of the gestures to push the growing unease away.

For once, the sight of the mess hall's doors is a welcome one.

Not that it usually isn't this early in the morning, with most people still asleep, but sometimes—

"—and _bam_! Goodbye, love!"

—sometimes there are some late night owls or early birds.

Ignoring the three men sitting on a table by the side, Soundwave makes his way to the coffee machine to get a healthy dose of deep black liquid gold to help him endure the likes of the _Nemesis_' inhabitants one more day.

"Hey, Sanders! Good morning!" Keeping a sigh inside, he grabs the mug once it's full and turns around, once more ready to ignore the three people now looking at him—

Wait, they've called him… _Sanders_?

No, that's not right, his name is… his name is John Sanders… but… why does he have the feeling it is Soundwave too?

"Sanders? You alright there?"

He snaps to attention at his name—is it?—being called, locking gazes with the dark eyes of their leader—and it's not right, they should be—

He sags dangerously on his feet as a wave of dizziness hits him, hand around the mug losing it's grip—

Someone catches him before he falls, another pair of hands grabbing his free arm and helping guide him to an empty bench.

He hasn't heard it break, but the mug is in pieces on the floor under his feet and two other pairs, one clad in white boots with blue toes and the other in black with purple toes, moving along his before he feels himself being lowered to lie on his back on the bench, and then there's only the ceiling over him, and two heads and torsos.

"Carter, call a doctor. Grant, get some cool water and a cloth."

The voice is raspy and with a higher pitch hidden underneath, but the orders are strong and without room for even a second of doubt, and one of the people hovering over him goes away as the other moves, and suddenly something is lifting his feet to have them rest on a hard surface, and the remaining man turns around to look down at him.

He has dark tanned skin, dark brown hair falling to under his jawline and dark eyes he can't say if they're brown or black, looking searchingly over his visor—_sunglasses—_with a serious professionalism and a small hint of worry.

"Sanders? You with me?" He asks, and his voice is the one that was giving orders barely a second before, but far lower and without a hint of the higher pitch, a soothing rumble instead, and he closes his eyes.

When a hand caresses his cheek as it grabs the leg of his sunglasses, he quickly grips it without a second thought.

The arm tenses at the sudden movement, but relaxes almost as quickly.

Eyes he doesn't remember opening look up once more into the tanned face showing relief and exasperation, and something clicks in his brain.

Steve Reeds, Air Commander.

"Still with us, good." The man comments softly, almost to himself, and he opens his mouth to ask what he was trying to do, to order to be let up instead of held down on the bench by the simple presence of the other male hovering worriedly over him.

But the Seeker—where did he get that word from?—tilts his head to look at something else on the room, probably one of the other two that were with him, and light falls in his eyes.

For an instant, they flash red.

And so, whatever it was that he was going to say gets lost in places unknown between his brain and his mouth, and what comes out in its place is something he hadn't ever heard before.

"Starscream…"

Reeds' head turns to him with almost a snap, looking startled, before frowning softly in confusion.

"What? No, better yet, don't say anything. Just stay still until the doctor gets here." He orders him, and another bit of information comes to mind.

Second in Command.

Seeing that he is Communications Officer and Third in Command… Well, that's an order that can't be disobeyed.

"Sir, the water." Another voice cuts in, one he's sure he's heard since he entered the mess hall, and another man enters his vision.

This one has dark brown hair to his shoulders and a stubbly beard, with brown eyes filled with clear worry, although he's not sure if it's for him.

He's wearing a purple jacket with a black shirt under it, instead of the red jacket and white shirt of the Air Commander, although both their ties are yellow.

"Is he sick? Is it _catching_?" He asks the tanned man, who rolls his eyes as he accepts the pot with the cloth over the side and, at the lack of answer, the purple-clad man steps away. "If it _is_ catching, I'm holding both of you responsible."

"Shut up, Grant. Go wait with Ted and keep onlookers away, if you're so worried." The brown-eyed man sticks out his tongue before going out of his field of vision.

Theodore 'Ted' Carter and Sky Grant, Second and Third Wings of the Air Commander.

Somehow, those names don't ring true.

A hand hovering next to his head makes him forget about names to turn his attention once more to the tanned man, who is looking down at him with an almost emotionless visage.

Almost. He can see the hint of worry deep in his dark eyes.

"I'm going to take your glasses off. You have a fever, and until the doctor can give you a once over, you'll have to make do with myself." He knows it's a warning, not an order, that if he asks not to have his glasses removed the other won't do it, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he closes his eyes and forces himself not to tense too much when he feels cool skin against his temples and the loss of the familiar weight of his sunglasses when it goes away.

A soft clicking sound after that, something cold and wet touches his forehead, and he flinches.

The thing is taken away, but the coldness of water droplets on his face lingers.

"Easy, Sanders, it's just a cloth." That soft raspy voice rumbles soothingly, and he lets out a shuddering breath when the coldness comes back full force, but doesn't try to move. "Sanders? Still with me?" He asks after some seconds of silence, where he can hear shuffling and mutterings as well as Grant's louder voice in the background, and he nods minutely. "Know what happened?"

"Get away I said, you bunch of idiots!" A louder, annoyed voice cuts, and he winces at the volume and tries to turn away, only managing to dislodge the cloth and have strong hands grab his shoulders to keep him from rolling off the bench. "Air Commander, what happened?"

"Hell if I know. He just came in, went for his coffee like always, and suddenly turned white as a ghost and dropped limply. He was lucky Grant got him before he fell on the broken mug." The tanned man answers, the higher pitch once more in his voice, and the arms on his shoulders soften their grip. "We got him lying here and called you. He's boiling up."

"I'll have to get him to Med Bay to give him a thorough examination—" A cold hand is suddenly pressed against his neck, and he squirms, but the hands on his shoulders hold him in place. "—but I can see that. Can you carry him?"

"Me? Huh, well… maybe, if I get him on my back, but—"

"That will do." The doctor cuts in, and the hands on his body vanish, leaving him feeling much too conscious about how warm he is, and how tight his clothes suddenly are. "Come on, I'll go ahead and get things ready. Don't dwindle!"

Fading steps follow those words, and the mutterings on the background start anew, somehow sounding louder and more painful than before.

"Look what mess you've got me in." The Air Commander groans before the surface he's lying on moves a bit. "Carter, help me get him on my back. I swear, if my reputation suffers for this, _you_ will pay for it." The last part is added far softer, obviously to Soundwave, but he keeps his eyes closed and tries to fight off the dizziness slowly getting a hold of him.

Hands are on his shoulders and legs, and suddenly he's moving, and the world is whirling and his head is hurting—

"Easy! We don't want to get him worse." The Air Commander hisses, and there's something dangerous in his voice, so Soundwave tries to get his eyes open just a sliver to see what's going on.

Everything's blurry, but he makes out a blue-clad man with short black hair and pale brown eyes next to the red-clad one, before his head protests against the too intense light and he closes his eyes again with a soft whimper.

Oh, Primus, his whole body hurts, but his processor is just—

Primus? _Processor_?

A sharp stab at the back of his head makes him double forward, and there's a startled yelp as his face collides with slightly coarse fabric covering taut and warm muscles.

He moves a bit after the impact, better burrowing his face against a piece of much softer and warmer fabric, with wisps of something silky caressing his head, the muscles tenser now.

"Al_right_. Creepy. Hurry up, would you?"

There's laughter in the background, but he only worries about the hands guiding his arms over strong shoulders and his hands towards one another, so that he can grab his own wrist for stability as those hands get on his sides and the world moves _again_.

He moans pitifully, soft whimpers escaping his lips as the grip on his sides helps him get on a comfortable position on the taut and warm back under his front, hands under his thighs keeping him up, and he wiggles a bit closer to that wonderful warmth.

There's a soft squeak when his cheek finds warm skin and he presses against it, the hands on his sides vanishing and those under his thighs tightening their grip.

He can feel the rhythmic rush of blood through the vessels hidden under the skin against his face, and he relaxes almost without thought.

"Shit, he's hotter than I thought." The Air Commander growls softly as the world starts moving again, although in a soothing rhythmic sway this time.

Raucous laughter explodes far too close, and he presses closer against the body carrying him with a pained whimper, feeling the vibrations of the skin against his face as a low rumbling voice says something from somewhere over his head.

The laughter cuts off with a yelp.

"Thanks, Ted." The tanned man grumbles, and, slowly, Soundwave relaxes.

"No need to." A deep voice answers, soft enough not to aggravate his headache, with a hint of a not so sincere smile.

"… You won't let me live this down, will you."

Two 'no' answer the not-question, one from the deep voice and the other from one far too cheerful, but still low enough not to be painful.

"You owe me one, Sanders. Or more like one _hundred_." He grumbles, the body rumbling along the voice, and he relaxes further, although he nuzzles the skin a bit more, trying to find the pulse once more. "Would you stop that?" The Air Commander squeaks softly as the body shivers, and if he complies is because he can feel the rush of blood once more. "Seriously, if you were that sick, why did you come to the hall? Ted, Grant, go to your posts, tell Commander Storm about the situation and that I'll be by as soon as I can."

There's no audible answer, but the two sets of echoing footsteps vanish. If such a thing was possible without him falling off, he would've relaxed even further.

"I'm going to get back at you, Sanders, so don't be so—"

"Soundwave."

"What?" He nuzzles a bit closer as the swaying movement stops, his head throbbing in response. "Sanders? What did you say?"

"Name's Soundwave…" He whimpers, tensing and pressing tighter against the body, and the swaying starts again.

This time, though, it does nothing to alleviate his pain.

"Easy, man. You're going to get better."

That's the last he hears from the Air Commander before there's the whooshing of doors opening and footsteps, and too cold hands prying him away from the warm body carrying him and lying him on an even colder surface, and there are loud voices talking all around him, and lots of noise that only make him feel worse.

As he retreats deep in his own mind, he ponders over the last words he said to Reeds… And realizes that the name 'Steve Reeds' doesn't suit the man any more than 'John Sanders' does him.

There's something really wrong with the world…

Now, if only he could remember _what_…

* * *

**AN:** There will be no OCs in this story.

Now, on to other things.

Rabid plot-bunny monsters everywhere...

I could have sworn I'd encountered the worst of them... Turns out I had not.

What's worse that a rabid plot bunny-monster grabbing you for a whole weekend and not letting you sleep until the story is complete?

The answer is a _zombie_ rabid plot bunny-monster. Every time you think it's done with you, it comes back to life.

And when the result is _this_... Torture.

I've never suffered (still suffering) as much as with this. It's not finished, because every time I think I have it, the ZPBM (zombie plot bunny-monster) comes back to life and... well, lets just say, I _need_ to read things after I've finished writing, because I don't even know what I've written.

So, I decided that if I have to suffer as much for a story like this one, then it better be worth something. So, the obvious conclusion? Post it. Let people enjoy (either the story or kicking me for writing it), so that it may be worth all the ZPBM is putting me through.

I can't promise scheduled updates, because the writing process is not constant nor something that's my choice, but I'll try to steadily publish the chapters I have. I've decided on once a week, so that I may have time to polish what is getting written.

If it works, good. If it doesn't... Well, my bad.

Lets just hope I survive it.

**Update:** By the by, just realized I hadn't posted it, so here are my inspiration sources in the physical area (meaning, how I imagine the characters). Take off the spaces and brackets, and the URLs are ready to use:

- doubleleaf . deviantart (.com)/ art / Commission-Seekers-287530695 : Characters + Uniforms. The rest of the gallery is also awesome, but it was love at first sight with this one.

- wakachiko . tumblr (.com)/ tagged / humanformers : Uniforms, again, but these ones should be recognizable right now.


	2. Viewpoints

Steve Reeds is many things.

Air Commander, Second in Command of the _Nemesis_, best pilot _ever_, cunning, annoying, cocky… And some more things he could tell and even more _other__s_ could add.

But one thing he isn't is superstitious.

Or religious, for that matter.

He was a scientist before an Air Force pilot, and it is as much a part of him as being airborne is.

He doesn't believe in past lives.

And he doesn't believe that a fever as high as Sanders' was can make people think they're someone else, either, more so if it's a _flu_ fever.

There have been some cases and he's sure there will be more, so, despite being surprised by Sanders' idiocy in trying to keep up with his routine while sick, he's not surprised he caught it too.

He didn't think much of him being called a different name. Or codename, whatever that was. But Sanders calling _himself_ a different name, one that sounds like one of Grant's bad jokes, with the same no-nonsense tone of voice he uses to give orders?

_That_ doesn't sound plausible.

So, he's the first to be down in the Med Bay when his shift is over, and, once more, is not surprised at the stunned face of the doctor when he walks through the door as calmly as he does the bridge.

"Air Commander? Is something wrong?" The white-haired man asks gruffly, already approaching him with his signature glare.

"Not this time, Doctor." He answers, waving a hand to try and calm the man, something not that easy seeing that he feels, and probably looks, like something that's fallen from the Civilian Government building's roof.

Sanders' absence meant taking on his post as well as his own, and he really could have done without the extra work, more so seeing he spent quite a long time in the labs the day before, cutting his sleep time in half.

The nonplussed look the older man gives him tells him he's not being believed.

"Just tired, and no, no other symptoms that would point to the flu, and yes, _I_ will come see you if I even start suspecting of having caught it. I'm here for Sanders." He answers, and the frown on the paler face grows darker.

"If it's to drop work on him—"

"Come on, Shepherd, I'm not that much of an asshole. No, I'm here to _visit_, believe it or not." He cuts, scoffing at the accusation.

Their stalemate goes on for a minute before Ryan 'The Hatchet' Shepherd backs down.

He has to fight to keep his smugness to a mere smirk, but he manages.

"Well, I guess it's alright then… If you don't mind the risk of catching the flu, too. You wouldn't happen to be looking for that, would you?"

His patience snaps and he turns on his heels with an annoyed huff, ready to walk away and come back when the Chief Medical Officer _is not there_.

"Alright! I'm going then!" He growls, walking to the door with big strides.

"Hey, wait! It's alright, I'm sorry. I just couldn't keep the joke in." The doctor stops him and, still annoyed, he glares at the man over his shoulder until his amused smile vanishes under his usual scowl. "Don't bother him. His fever was quite serious and he needs his rest." He nods, relaxing, and follows to where the Communications Officer is lying seemingly asleep on a white bed. "Ten minutes."

"And if he's still sleeping?"

"Better luck next time." He nods and sits in the chair near the bed while the doctor goes back to whatever he was doing when he came in, leaving them alone.

He frowns softly as he studies the pale and sweaty face, cheeks tinted pink with a much lower fever.

'Soundwave', he said, and 'Starscream', he called him.

What do they mean?

Why those names? Why different names to begin with?

He looks down at himself and slowly, as he lets his thoughts fly, he takes off his blue gloves, straightening them on his thighs and brushing off any wrinkles.

Sanders' flu aside, it's been a calm day, the usual bustling activity in the Military Base _Nemesis_ under the _Ark_ Protectodome, without even a whiff of the Black Beasts.

His frown softens as his eyes darken, the sight of his perfectly straightened gloves on his thighs lost to him as memories start scrolling through his mind.

No one knows how or why the Black Beasts came to their world, to their little meaningless Earth, but they did.

And they carried with them the Black Plague.

The reason why Protectodomes like the _Ark_ exist is because of that foul epidemic, turning people into masses of black goo that release fumes as black and sticky as tar, contaminating the atmosphere as a fouler and deadlier smog, taking Earth's organisms down when a significant part of their bodies gets covered by the tar-like drops that conform the misty Black Plague.

It's been centuries since the Black Beasts came, but no one knows anything about them, only that they came and unleashed the Black Plague.

That's why they're called _Black_, because they're as mysterious as anything hidden in the darkness.

Humanity is alive today because of the Protectodomes standing between them and the Black Plague, but it would be a lot different if it wasn't for the Cybertronian, the Military Force's specially designed crafts.

They are manned by humans brave or stupid enough to waste years training to get into these technological marvels and be sent outside the Protectodomes to fight off the Black Beasts when they try a more direct attack to destroy their defenses.

There are far too many that get lost in their first outing.

And if you're lost out there, you are lost forever.

Dead, or alive.

Steve's alive because he's one of the best pilots ever. His wingmates are because their rides are the work of the best.

Oh, Grant and Ted are good, real good, excellent in fact, but sometimes that isn't enough, and there have been too many times where they've come back just because of Grant's light-speed bursts that make it look almost like he's teleporting, or Ted's sonic booms winning him enough time to hightail it from deadly situations.

Or teamwork.

Because they are a Wing, and _everybody_ knows _his_ Wing is the_ best_.

Not even Combiners, massive Cybertronian built to be stronger, faster, _better_ than normal ones, are as good.

Not even the flying Combiner Superion.

They lost too many good men, the day Superion fell.

Steve's own flying Cybertronian, known as Tetrajets, is nothing special. In fact, she's special _because_ she has nothing, seeing as every other craft has been modified in some way. Steve's not only untouched by the technicians, but old.

That's why he keeps her.

With all the new modifications needed to survive, none of the newer Tetrajets are as fast.

And none of the other pilots can steer Steve's beauty with enough skill to get the best out of her, to survive the traitorous odds and twists of fate.

Some joke that Steve Reeds doesn't pilot a Tetrajet, but has a symbiotic relationship with one.

He always scolds them, but it's mostly an act.

When he's airborne, Steve's free, one with the winds and currents and the metal all around him, to the point he can almost _feel_ the air outside the hull.

And, since fighting the Black Beasts is something they can't do visually, but through radar, lidar and scans, it's a benefit no other pilot has.

Instinct, others call it.

A blessing, his fellow pilots say.

Steve being who he is, is his wingmates' explanation.

And him… he can't really find a way to describe it, feeling like he has to agree with all of them.

No one knows anything about Black Beasts, because no one has even seen them, ever. None of their crafts has any kind of windows or panes, because they are useless in their poisoned black atmosphere.

Only screens with the radar information, and many different scans that show the Black Beasts as blobs of light with clearer spots marking weaknesses.

It would be a lot easier if those monsters weren't coated with so much Black Plague that blobs are the most their machinery can identify, but, after all, the epidemic is to them like air to humans. Or water after a shower. It doesn't hurt the Beasts, but it difficults the scans' job.

It always takes Steve to feel the Tetrajet soaring through the air to convince himself he isn't back at the simulator.

Without visual and only with the scans as guides, they need to think fast and act even faster, using calculus and strategy to navigate a world made of coordinates and data.

Another reason why the former scientist is the best, the Air Commander.

People joke that he's been at the top for so long that no one remembers who the last Air Commander was.

It's not a joke for those in the Air Force.

Steve himself doesn't know who the man, or woman, was, but he has never asked.

Every time someone mentions or makes a vague reference about the last Air Commander, all in Air Force look away.

He's begun to wonder how many do so because they don't know anything about their last superior officer, either.

But, after all, he has never asked.

Trying to get his thoughts away from the current topic, he looks up at Sanders.

The man's feverish pale blue eyes are lost somewhere on the ceiling.

Feeling as if approaching one of those damned pets that always try to bite or scratch him, Steve raises slowly, not caring that his gloves end on the ground.

Sanders doesn't react, doesn't even seem to have noticed him.

His gaze is not on the ceiling, but unfocused. Unseeing.

Unease pools at the bottom of his stomach, and starts to grow.

"Sanders?" He asks softly, a hand almost reaching for the prone man's, but stopping tremulously next to it. "It's me, Reeds. Sanders?"

Nothing.

And then, not even thinking about it, Steve decides to take a leap of faith.

"Soundwave?"

Blue eyes glinting feverishly and flecked with red lock on his, and he freezes.

Somehow, he knows whoever is on the bed is not John Sanders.

And yet, he _knows_ that this is Sanders, the real deal, the man himself.

Only, not as much the man as the _soul_.

His heart clenches so painfully that one hand shots to grab at the clothing over his chest, what would have been an agonized scream going through his lips as a soundless gasp as his knees lock in an effort not to throw him to the ground, his free hand curling on the sheets with enough strength to lose all feeling in it.

His eyes never leave Sanders'.

"Soundwave…" He whispers, and he can't hear himself speak, but the feverish gaze seems to focus even more on him. "'S me… Starscream."

The man on the bed snaps upright so quickly that the next thing he knows is that strong hands are grabbing his shoulders with enough strength to have the fingers dig in the joint and push the bones apart slowly.

The pain in his chest and the unadulterated _terror_ twisting Sanders' face keep him mute and immobile, wide startled eyes never leaving the feverish red-speckled blue of the other man.

"They're coming…" The Communications Officer whispers, the machines surrounding them starting to go crazy. "They will take us… Back to the beginning… We have to_—_"

The scream that escapes through Sanders' lips is the most agonized sound he has ever heard, and he doubts he'll hear anything like it in the rest of his lifetime.

The doctor rushes into the room as the man falls unconscious against his chest, and he quickly grabs him before he topples off the bed, but his body betrays him by letting him know of the damaged tendons in his shoulder joints, and his legs bend under the added weight.

Fortunately, the white-haired man is there to keep Sanders from falling to the ground, even as Reeds grunts and curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso as he feels his body seize up painfully, waves of agony coming from deep within his chest—the area where his heart is supposed to be, but he doesn't feel it beating, can't feel anything but the white hot furnace growing hotter and hotter—

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the burning starts to lessen, almost as if the smelting pit that has become his chest cools with every intake of cold Med Bay air and every exhale of scorching air filling his most likely molten lungs.

By the time the doctor has Sanders back in the bed, sure he isn't about to suffer a stroke or something of the like, and turns to the Air Commander, his throat is burning as badly as if he's swallowed a gallon of distilled alcohol and his chest feels as if someone had put it against a giant Bunsen burner and switched it on.

His vision is so blurry the man in front of him is just a blob of white and pink, and it takes him far too long to realize there are tears streaming down his face.

His body is still locked down, so he doesn't—can't—make any move to wipe them off.

He could have never expected a visit to a flu-suffering Sanders would end like this.

"—eeds! _Steve_!" He jerks with a gasp as the loud shout bounces in his head, and he finally manages to free one arm enough to rub his face free of liquid, even though his shoulder protests at that. "Thank God! Are you alright? What _happened_?" Shepherd asks, leaning a bit closer so that their eyes can meet, although the Air Commander looks away to the prone form on the bed, eyes closed and breathing even, not a hint of emotion on his flushed face.

He tries to talk, but he has to turn to the side as the rash dryness of his throat forces him to cough, and he's never been in so much pain from such a simple gesture before.

When he manages to stop, every gasped intake of breath cutting through his throat, there's blood pooling in his mouth and dripping past his lips, and the doctor is freaking out next to him.

He hears him shout and curse and call someone he barely notices from the corner of his eye, because he feels as if he's burning from the inside out, but how can such a thing be real?

He's dragged to his feet and taken to an empty bed, where he's forced to sit down, even though he doesn't really go against the white-clad men of the Medical Department, it's his body that's still locked so tightly that it pains him to even make a finger twitch.

Before his mind manages to process enough for him to snap out of his shock, there's a small pinprick of a needle on his neck, and the world turns muddled and dark.

* * *

August Prime is not prone to panic, but he has to admit his old friend's helplessness and fear are starting to rub on him.

That Lester Storm, Supreme Commander of the Military Force, is especially worried about the situation doesn't help either.

"Ryan, old friend, calm down." He tells the doctor softly and, despite his age, the man gives him a 'puppy eyes attack' that would have even a baby bending to his will.

"But how can I? I still have no answers! I understand the overextended tendons, but the fever, the throat…" His voice almost cuts off before he manages to take a deep breath. "Those were _burn marks_, August. While he was in my Med Bay, with a flu patient that was _unconscious_ and without anything that could have done that kind of damage. And you want me to calm down?" He asks in almost a whimper, and the taller man doubts for a second.

"You have to, Doctor Shepherd. We need you. Even if you don't know how it happened, _yet_, you can still treat my men, can't you?" Lester cuts in, his deep voice, usually ordering people around and filled with power, now softer and more soothing somehow.

The doctor doesn't even need a second to nod.

"I can, but… but I need to know what happened, what kind of illness is this to create a cure and _eradicate_ it, instead of just treating symptoms."

"And you will, old friend. Just take some time to calm down, so that not even the tinniest detail slips past you." He comforts with a small smile and, after another deep breath, Ryan nods.

Lester lets out a tired sigh as he runs a hand through his silvery blond hair, green eyes glaring at the desk.

"You've discarded all known illnesses, then?" The Supreme Commander asks, and the doctor nods once again.

"The last tests' results got in earlier today. Nothing." And that is exactly what they'd feared when they got the emergency call from Shepherd to put the Med Bay under quarantine and the _Nemesis_ in lock-down.

This is exactly why August is sitting in his office and Lester in his, having a three-way meeting through video-conference between them and the doctor still in Med Bay.

They were startled and skeptical about the emergency request, but you don't disobey a medical order like _that_ just because you think it's weird. Later, once the military base had been closed off to civilians with all personnel isolated inside, the situation was explained in detail, and they realized it had been a wise choice.

There had been some episodes of flu all around the base, but none as sudden and wild as John Sanders' that morning, who went from perfectly healthy to an almost deadly fever in the time it had taken to brew a cup of black coffee.

And then, Air Commander Steve Reeds, the one who had been in contact with the Communications Officer the longest without sterilized equipment, just fell down with the same high fever plus a burned throat.

The first thing Shepherd had done after issuing the quarantine order was isolate the two men, in case it was a new virus, and get some blood and tissue samples sent to the laboratories of the _Nemesis_.

After making sure his patients were stable, he got the medical personnel outside the quarantined Med Bay to check over the rest of the Military Base's population.

They were freaked out, the Air Commander's wingmates more than the rest, but none exhibited any symptoms.

And now, a week later, no other cases have appeared, and neither has the guilty bacteria or virus or whatever had been responsible. And the two patients are healthier than ever, if bored out of their minds.

The Supreme Commander took pity on the doctor and got them back to work through the Med Bay computers.

Which was all nice and good for Sanders, but Reeds…

"I'm going to have to clear them soon, before that Air Commander of yours drives my staff and myself crazy, unless I find a reason to get them to stay. And there's no standing those wingmates of his. I swear, if I hear Grant approach my Med Bay whistling that accursed tune again, I'm knocking him out until next century, I don't care what you say."

"The last two attacks haven't put them in a better mood, I guess." Lester doesn't even bother making his statement a question, and the doctor's scowl is more than enough to let him know that he's right. "Well, I'd say take some more samples for whatever you think and clear them out. You'll have clearance as the CMO to get them down to Med Bay at your call, but I _need_ them out here. Neither Carter nor Grant are half the Air Commander Reeds is, and having to juggle both my Second and Third's workloads hasn't exactly helped, mostly because they are _still_ trying to catch up and can only get so much done from the Med Bay."

"Would you rather have this spread, or Sanders falling unconscious during an attack or Reeds being outside the Protectodome if he suffers a relapse?" The doctor asks incredulously, and the Supreme Commander sighs tiredly, a scowl on his face.

"I'd rather not have them relapsing, but the possibility that something that has only happened once happens again isn't enough to keep them quarantined and the _whole base_ in lock-down. From what you've told us, it seems to have been two isolated incidents, and there doesn't seem to be any risk of this being contagious. At the very least, lift the quarantine and clear Reeds for desk duty, so I may get my officers back. Think of it as a trial period, give him one more week before clearing him for the field, and I'll keep someone with Sanders to halve his workload during this time." He says, but he's really pleading, because Lester may be Supreme Commander and August may be the _Ark_'s Civilian Government Commander, but Ryan's Chief Medical Officer, and that gives him authority over both of them if it regards medical issues.

And yet, because of that same reason, he knows how badly this situation is affecting not only the _Nemesis_, but the _Ark_ too.

Having the whole Military Base locked down for so long is starting to damage not only working relationships, but civilian morale, too, more so because no one, not even the military, has answers as to when this nightmare is going to end.

The last two attacks, too close one after the other, haven't helped, either.

There have been far more losses too.

And Ron Fowler, Second in Command of the _Ark_'s Civilian Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers has gone to their Med Bay more than once to treat the crippling migraines than render him as good as unconscious, but with a big deal more pain, when in highly stressful long-term situations. Like the one they're in now.

And the increased periods without the man are starting to take its toll in the Enforcers and Civilian Government, too.

Ryan lets out a defeated sigh, and the other two know immediately that he yields.

"Very well, I'll order the quarantine lifted and them back to duty, but I want them coming to Med Bay for a check up every afternoon after their shifts. If they don't comply, or if I find anything, and I mean _any_thing, I will stuff them in my ICU again. If everything's alright… well, I guess a week is as good a time as any."

"And the _Nemesis_' lock-down?" Lester asks cautiously, and the doctor grumbles softly under his breath.

"Give it two more days. If nothing's wrong, you can lift it." Both Commanders let out relieved sighs before they exchange small smiles.

The loads of work in both theirs and their subordinates' shoulders will lift visibly, and morale will increase, too, even if they have to wait two more days.

"Also, I don't think they would be stupid enough to do so, but in case they try to hide any kind of symptoms, could you keep an eye on them?" The Supreme Commander nods without need for another word, and the doctor relaxes.

Crisis averted.

* * *

**AN:** Thanks a lot to everybody that has reviewed/favorited/put on alert. Every time I see a new message about it, I can't help but smile.

More names, which means more characters! Remember, there are no OCs, which means that if someone is named, they are canon.


	3. Growing Family

Will Dylan smiles widely when the door to the meeting area cleared for civilians opens to let in a very well-known man.

When the _Nemesis_' lock-down was lifted, the first thing the scientist did was request a meeting with his long-time friend, with whom all contact had been forbidden during the week and a half the isolation of the military personnel had gone on.

His request had been cleared barely an hour after submitting it, and he almost melted in relief.

And so, when the time came, he went to the _Nemesis_ with what those who knew him would call a skip to his step, gave his name and reason of his being there to the bored man on janitor duty, and took the pass that cleared him as a visitor with a big smile.

As all Military Bases, the _Nemesis_ has security protocols to be followed, which include visiting rights, something that makes him think of the Enforcers' brigs. Once cleared for visiting a certain individual, or individuals in special cases, the civilians are granted access to a really small part of the base, relegated to the area around the entrance.

It includes a mess hall, a recreation room and, with previous reservation, private rooms.

Will is always stunned by how many people, despite the amount of paperwork needed for clearance, are there the times he visits.

Fortunately for him, he can fill the forms almost in his sleep by now.

And seeing that the one he's visiting is a high ranking officer, clearance is far easier to be granted. Although, as was to be expected, there are lots of times when he just spends his time sitting in the mess hall waiting for his friend, some days going so far as to have to go back home without anything more than a soldier coming by to apologize, because his friend won't be able to make it.

So, after everything that has happened this last week, it shouldn't be all that surprising that the first thing he does when the smaller man approaches with his patented cocky smirk is embrace him. Tightly.

And, not surprising either, that earns him a breathless surprised exclamation and a punch—far weaker than he knows his friend is capable of, but, well, he's his _friend—_to the arm along an order to be released.

"Yes, really long time no see. I'm fine, how are _you_?" The tanned man scoffs, brushing the wrinkles out of his red uniform jacket, and he chuckles.

"Sorry for that, but I was really worried about you. Are you _really_ alright, Steve?" He asks, because it may be the hug he's smothered him with, but his voice sounds raspier than usual.

"A bit sore right now. Wonder why." He deadpans, and Will can't help the relieved laughter.

"Glad to hear that. I've been working hard to get positive results." He joins in with the joke, sitting back down on the table he's taken as their own, with the other following suit with a snort.

"Keep working and next time you come visit you'll have to deal with the CMO. God, don't they give courses on bedside manners in the Medical Academy?" The taller man chuckles at that, happy to see his friend back to his grumbling.

If he's well enough to whine, he's fine. It's when he doesn't that it's worrying, because it means things are serious enough to _deserve_ a doctor's attention.

"If we're talking about The Hatchet, then the right question would be _when_ did they start giving those courses." Reeds lets out a bark of laughter at that, and yes, his voice is raspier, but his friend is prone to that, with his job demanding a lot of talking.

"Touché, my dear William."

"Just Will, _Steven_."

"Hey! You can't call me that, it's not in my profile!"

"Wouldn't know, never read your profile." His smile may be mischievous as they banter, but the scientist is positively happy.

Ever since Steve Reeds left the academic world to join the military, he's feared there will come a day when his visiting request will be denied because there's no one to visit anymore. So, any minute, any _second_ he can spend with his friend is one more he will treasure safely in his heart, for Steve has come to be almost like a brother during the time they've known each other.

He will always hate those first years, after the smaller man left him to join the _Nemesis_, when his decision caused them to fall out.

He will never be able to thank Percy and Jack enough for convincing him to reach out to his friend again.

Their first meetings were awkward at best, and hostile at worst, even though they never came to blows, but his fellow scientists kept pushing him to ask for a visit again and again, and, finally, he realized that not even once did Steve deny the requests.

Slowly, like two pieces of a puzzle that water had bent out of shape, they managed to smooth down their relationship and have it click back in place.

It wasn't the same, it would never be the same, more so because of Steve's high rank, but at least they had their friendship back, and they made it be more than enough.

"So, what happened? Why the lock-down?" He asks at last, when they fall into comfortable silence, and Steve grimaces.

"Spread of virulent flu. Shepherd thought it was some new virus or something, and kept the lock-down until it was proved it wasn't." He explains simply, and it's only because he's known him for as long as he has that Will knows he hasn't told all the truth.

And yet, his words ring true, which means that, judging by the topic, what he's left out is his role in the lock-down. Seeing he knows people who have been able to talk to friends and family during the last week…

"You caught it, didn't you." Not a question, and as thus, he doesn't get an answer.

The small blush on Steve's dark skin is more than enough confirmation, anyway.

"Well, I'm glad it's over and you're alright. I have so much to tell you about my latest project." The Air Commander perks up at that, as curious and knowledge-hungry as always and, once more, Will has to push down the dark anger towards whatever convinced his friend to leave his position as a scientist.

The last thing he wants is to bring up their old disagreement again.

"You can't do that!"

Despite the room being quite crowded, all procedures needed to get inside notwithstanding, it's quite easy to locate who is shouting, since they're the only ones not sitting down that aren't by the doors.

The first thing the tall man notices is that it's a quite large group, and that all of them minus one wear visitor passes.

The second, is that only two of them, the one without pass and another, are adults. The rest are teenagers, barely old enough to be recruited, apparently.

And two boys, twins, judging by their looks, are standing and leaning over the table to glare at the pass-less man, who is simply looking at them expressionlessly, the dark sunglasses he's wearing hiding his eyes.

"What the…" The Air Commander whispers in confusion, also looking at the group, before standing up.

"Steve, please, you're not on duty." He quickly whispers, grabbing his friend's arm as he tries to walk past him towards the group, still arguing but low enough that they can't discern words.

"I'm not doing this out of duty." The tanned man answers before getting his arm free with a tug and, after a second, Will stands up and follows.

"—old enough to make our own decisions!" One of the twins, the one dressed in blue, hisses, not even noticing them approaching, even if the adult with the pass quickly looks at them.

"We've even waited long enough to apply together, so that we can watch out for each other!" The red-clad twin adds, thumping a fist against the table.

And then, one of the two girls, the black-haired one sitting next to the blue-clad boy, sees them and tugs on the teenager's shirt, quickly getting his attention.

"What? Don't you agree?" He hisses, narrowing his pale eyes behind his red-tinted glasses, but the other just points at them.

Both twins look at the two men standing next to their table and scowl, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment on their faces.

"Sorry, we didn't mean to bother you." A black-haired boy tells them, giving Will a slightly fearful look, and the scientist has to fight to keep a tired sigh in.

Just because he's taller and bulkier than the average man doesn't mean he's a brute, but it seems people are too worried about appearances.

Which is why he treasures friends like Percy and Jack, but would kill for Steve, because the man met him before he knew anything about his intelligence, and didn't care.

Well, he wouldn't exactly _kill_, but the expression is fairly accurate.

It's not surprising when the pass-less man stands up when he sees who they are, but that the other adult does so too, looking at Steve with slight fear instead of Will, is something quite novel.

Looks like the cherry-blond freckled man knows who his friend is.

The biggest surprise, though, comes when the uniformed pass-less man speaks.

"Reeds." Is the simple word, and the fact that it doesn't have a title attached to it is enough to make Will's platinum blond brows climb almost to his hairline.

"Sanders." His friend answers, and that is enough answer as to the informality with which they speak to each other, because the scientist may not have recognized the other man by sight, but everybody knows the Third in Command's name.

Or surname, in this case.

More curious than finding two of the three highest ranking officers of the _Nemesis_ in the visitor area at the same time is the fact that, after their short 'greeting', if it could be called such, they stay silent, simply looking at each other.

And then, the dirty-blond TIC tilts his head towards the glass panes that are one of the walls of the room, and Steve nods.

"I'll be back in a moment." He tells Will while his fellow officer exchanges quiet words with his group, and then both of them walk away towards the glass wall.

Stunned and speechless, the scientist can't do more than watch them stand next to each other and look outside, their backs to them, at complete ease.

"Is that the Air Commander?" A voice asks softly, filled with awe, and Will looks down to see the black-haired girl and the boy who apologized to them look at the two officers with wonder, almost dreamy smiles on their faces.

"Who cares." The blue-clad twin grumbles, falling back into his chair in unison with his brother, both of them looking sullen.

"I apologize for taking your pal from you." Will's head jerks up at those words, meeting the honey-brown eyes of the other adult, who is smiling sheepishly at him while extending a hand for him to shake. "Dexter Sanders."

"Will Dylan." He answers, shaking the man's hand and sitting when he gestures for him to do so in the chair the Third in Command has vacated. "Are you family?" He asks, looking at the group of teenagers around the table.

The twins, still looking like pouting. The two black-haired ones, a boy and a girl, whispering between themselves with excited smiles. The youngest of the group, looking not even recruitment age, bouncing in his seat as he listens to the black-haired teenagers, his dark brown hair getting into his eyes with the movement but too happy to care. And the two blond ones on the other side of the cherry-blond man, again one boy and one girl, looking at him curiously.

A lot of kids…

The smaller man chuckles, amused, when he finishes looking over them.

"Yeah, all of us. I'm Johnny's little bro, and these bunch'a pests—" All the teenagers yelp indignantly, and Will winces at the sound, but the other just smiles wider. "—are our surrogate kids. Though you would think someone as serious as Mister Third in Command over there wouldn't have picked as many." He jokes, gesturing to the twins and the dark-haired teenagers, who sneer, pout and stick their tongues out at him, respectively. "Me, I have my head screwed on right, so I got those two and decided that they were enough of a handful." He adds, putting an arm around the two blonds and pulling them against him with surprised squeaks.

"More like _we_ told him he had more than enough with us and two dogs." The blonde girl comments, rolling her eyes, and the man makes an exaggerated show of being shot in the heart.

"You kill me, princess."

"You kill yourself." All teenagers answer in unison, and the man drops limply over the table, twitching.

Will breaks out laughing.

"Anyway, I'm Chelsea." The blond girl continues, letting the smallest boy poke the still twitching man. "And this is my brother Rowan." She points towards the blond boy, who gives him a polite nod, before gesturing to the group on the other side of their surrogate parent. "The little one is Ralph, but don't let his size trick you, he's recruitment age." Said boy lets out an affirmative yelp, before starting to tickle the man, who squirms away with a chocked sound. "The other girl is Lizzie, and the boy next to her is her blood-brother, Buzz. The twins are Freddy, in blue, and Allan, in red." The dark-haired teenagers wave at him with broad smiles and sparkling eyes, while the other two just grumble to themselves.

"Please, don't mind our childish siblings." The black-haired girl comments with a dismissive wave towards the twins, who glare at her from behind their red-tinted glasses. "Say, do you know the Air Commander? As in, personally?" She asks excitedly, and both her and the two dark-haired boys bounce in their seats, looking expectantly at him.

"What's it to you if he knows the stupid Air Commander?" The red-clad twin cuts in with a scoff, although sounding defeated in comparison with before.

"Yeah, it isn't like you'll see him again if John doesn't sign our recruitment forms." The other adds dejectedly, and the three black-haired teenagers look like kicked puppies at that.

"Then we should try and get as much as we can from this chance." Buzz answers softly, but his heart isn't in it.

"What in the Seven Pits of Hell…" All eyes widen and turn to the other adult, who has finally recomposed himself enough to look as if a naked lady had just waltzed in and slapped him with a week old steak.

When they follow his gaze, they see the two officers, still in front of the glass wall and with their backs to them, and the teenagers gasp in stunned surprise.

It takes Will a second, but he finally realizes Steve has put a hand on the Third in Command's shoulder.

"I guess he has a big personal space bubble?" He asks softly, watching his friend turn his head a bit to be able to look at the other as he talks, hand unmoving from its perch.

"The Air Commander should be _vaporized_ right now…" One of the twins answers, and the scientist lets out a silent whistle.

"He's good." The other adult whispers with awe as the Third in Command nods barely noticeably and Steve squeezes his shoulder before letting his hand fall to his side and turns to the view once more. "_Real_ good, the stuff that even rich guys will buy only in special occasions kind of good." Feeling as confused as he is creeped, Will turns around to stare at a gobsmacked Dexter, who is slowly sliding down his chair, seemingly unconsciously. "The kind of good that even the guys who built the Hall of Records would say is a Godsend. The kind of good that—"

"Hey Dex, man, chill, will ya?" The twins cut in unison while the two blonds shake him, and, with a startled jerk, he straightens in his chair and his gaze focuses on them again.

"Yikes." He mutters, and the delighted smile growing on his face is starting to give Will cold chills.

"Is he always like this?" He asks Rowan, who shakes his head slowly.

"Only when _really_ weird stuff goes on, or when he finds something he _really really_ likes." The boy answers, and the scientist doesn't really feel better.

"Duh, of course he's good. He's the _Air Commander_." Lizzie says dryly, crossing her arms against her chest and giving the adult a nonplussed look.

But the man ignores her, turning instead to Will with the wonder and curiosity of a toddler.

"What did he study before joining the Military? Because my data says Aeronautics and Energy Engineering as well as Biology, but I'm sure I missed something."

Silence.

And then, a chorus of 'what?!' fills the room.

"He was a scientist?!" The twins ask in unison.

"That's so _cool_!" The three dark-haired teens exclaim.

"Where did you get _that_ info?!" The two blonds plus Will add.

Dexter's grimace and the hands covering his ears tell them he hasn't really heard them.

"Alright, alright. Calm down, or we won't be able to hear ourselves speak." The taller man calls after a moment, gesturing with his hands for the youngsters to be quieter, since all eyes are on them.

Including those of the two men near the—ah, no. They're not at the glass wall anymore, but standing next to their table and looking unimpressed and amused, respectively.

"What did you tell them?" Steve asks him, the smile in his lips turning to a smirk, while the older Sanders glares—or looks, to be accurate—at his younger brother.

"My fault." Dexter answers instead, grinning sheepishly as he presses back against the chair at the intensity of the not-glare. "Perks of being Civilian Government's Communications Officer, one gets to know a _lot_."

"Family business?" The Air Commander asks the other officer, who just lets his head lower a bit before shaking it, almost in defeat. "Well, see you later. Up for some coffee, Will?" He asks after a small shrug, walking past the table and patting his shoulder in a 'we're done, lets get away' gesture.

"Reeds." The man stops at the Third in Command's emotionless call, looking over his shoulder in confusion, even as the scientist stands and takes a step back to get out of their staring contest's way. "A click, if you can." The Air Commander stiffens, eyes growing wide, before he physically shakes himself out of his surprise and turns around, nodding as he crosses his arms against his chest.

Will exchanges a confused look with Dexter, and both are forced to shrug as they don't know what has just happened.

The older Sanders turning his attention to his surrogate children is enough to distract them.

"I have one condition." The five teenagers tense, eyes widening in surprise and growing hope, as the officer stands at attention, hands crossing at his back. "If _anything_ happens or you are in need of even the most meaningless help or advice, you will come to me or Steve Reeds." All eyes turn to the Air Commander, who tilts his head up with an air of superiority but gives them a nod. "If you accept this condition, I'll sign your recruitment forms."

There's silence for a second, and then, the twins throw themselves at their surrogate father, embracing him tightly and forcing him to take a couple of steps back to keep his balance.

The three dark-haired ones are hugging in an awkward position, but their smiles are as wide as they can get, and the two blonds exchange a confused look before smiling and starting to congratulate their cousins.

Will, stunned but feeling warm inside, looks at his friend, who has a proud and satisfied smile on his face.

When their eyes meet, the tanned man winks and the scientist starts to smile in amusement.

"Atten_tion_!" He calls loudly, all business, and suddenly it isn't Steve Reeds standing there anymore, but the Second in Command of the _Nemesis_.

There's a loud scrapping and scrambling sound before silence covers the room and, wide-eyed Will turns around to see all military personnel standing straight and at attention, the rest of the visitors as stunned as the scientist, who, slowly, takes another step away from the highest ranking officer in the room.

Even the older Sanders is rigid, the perfect picture of the concept 'at attention'.

The celebrating teenagers have frozen in place, with the twins embracing each other as their surrogate father has pushed them away.

After a second of looking at the Second in Command like deers in the headlights, the man cocks an eyebrow.

As quickly as they can, the five teenagers stand up and try to mimic the rest of soldiers in the room.

Feeling self-conscious, Will grabs an empty chair and sits down, hunching a bit into himself.

"This is the _Nemesis_. This, is the _Ark_'s strongest weapon and sturdiest defense. The Protectodome is a door without lock. And us, the Military Force, are it. _We_ are the real barrier between the Devils outside and our loved ones. _We_ are the ones keeping them safe, keeping the Protectodome in place, so that they may see another day. _We_ are the ones who destroy the Black Beasts to allow our families not to survive, but to _live_! _We_ are the present, and the _future_ of the _Ark_! Of the _human race_! In _our_ hands lays the power for humanity to flourish or be extinguished! _This_ is not a responsibility! _This_ is not a load to carry! _This_ is a _choice_! And it will be _our_ choice that will darken the Protectodome, or _light the outside world_!" The whole room trembles with the roar of the soldiers in it, and Will hunches even lower, looking up at the man he calls his friend. "We have the choice of light or darkness! Of life or death! _What do we choose_?!"

"_Life_!"

"I said, _what do we choose_?!"

"_Life, Sir_!"

The room shakes with the echo of those two words and, even though there's silence, the roaring voices are still loud in his ears.

And then, the Second in Command smiles, a smile so sultry, so soft, that it's a deadly weapon all in its own.

"At ease." All standing bodies relax, and the scientist jerks at the low and raspy words, eyes widening even more when he notices just how few soldiers there are in the room despite the booming voices. "So, coffee?"

He jumps in his chair with a startled shout as the hand falls on his shoulder, and is met by the amused face of his friend, of Steve Reeds instead of the Second in Command.

"We can have some tea, if you'd prefer. I'm sure there are some calming blends in the mess hall." He comments casually as he starts to make his way out of the room.

Numbly, and feeling too self-conscious, he quickly follows, the last thing he sees before the door closes being the awed and admiring faces of the soldiers sitting back in their discarded chairs, and the adoring looks of the Sanders family, minus the Third in Command.

As they make their way down the corridor, Steve chattering about something he can't manage to pay attention to, he tries to decide if the officer's look had been grateful or smug.

He finally settles for a mix of both.

And a cup of chamomile tea.

* * *

**AN:** Updated Chapter 1 with some links to characters' looks. Here are some more (take off spaces and brackets):

- ammotu . deviantart (.com)/ gallery / 39305188?offset=0 : Frenzy and Rumble. The rest are interesting too, but not related to the story.

**Angel Heart:** Sorry about not answering your first review, I was so happy at reading it, but the lack of link to answer threw me off. Didn't even think about replying on the last chapter... Anyway, Thanks a lot for both reviews, I love them both! In answer to the last one... I'd say you're 75% right in your guess: One character was the right one, and, despite the second having been introduced in a kind of twisted way, he has yet to appear as such. And about the rest you mentioned... well, this chapter was answer enough, I guess ;P


	4. Feel to Know

Jazz knows he's dead, that any second now he'll be crushed into a puddle of goo, or be exposed to an even worse fate in the shapeless form of the Black Plague, or maybe he'll be one of the unlucky that gets to see a Black Beast and finds out what they do with humans.

Still, there's something he has to do.

If only his communications systems were working…

Jazz curses under his breath as he tinkers with the wires on the open panel, fighting against time.

He's in the dark, both literally and figuratively, now that his Cybertronian has shut down.

The Black Beasts could be out there, just looking down at him, that same instant.

Trying to fight panic and hysteria down to concentrate on the task at hand, Jazz remembers the idiom about seeing your whole life flash before your eyes when you're about to die.

He will never see it.

Not because he won't die—he's about to become another name in the casualty list, after all—but because he doesn't remember his whole life.

His first memory is from when he was twelve years old.

There was an incredibly bad attack, so bad that the military couldn't hold the Black Beasts off and they got to the Protectodome.

Parts of its inner structure broke or dislodged, and fell.

Some of those parts were a city block huge.

Lots was lost that day, before the remaining military managed to drive the Black Beasts away.

Fortunately, the outer and most protective shield of the Protectodome hadn't been one of them.

The Black Plague had been kept out, and whatever dents the hull had suffered had been repaired, along the inner structure, and reinforced.

The Hall of Records, on the other hand, had been one of their main losses.

And not only for them.

The _Ark_ was the main keeper of historical records, none of the other Protectodomes had had as much information about the time the Black Beasts came and the world before them as they'd had.

And it had all been lost.

Along with civilian records.

Jazz had just walked out of one of the most damaged areas of the city, in shock and completely numb despite his broken arm and cracked skull, with only his name as previous memory.

He'd been taken to one of the hastily set up emergency Medical Areas, patched together as much as was possible, and left on one of the bunch of blankets that served as beds in a too crowded tent.

When he'd awoken three days later to the moaning and crying and shrieking, a kind enough doctor had told that to him.

And that was his first memory, of laying on a bed with his head aching almost worst than his arm, while a white-coated man explained him about how they had found him and what had happened.

His only consolation had been that his name was cool.

They'd given him the surname Smith, like a lot other family-less children too young or traumatized to remember theirs, and left him in a suddenly overpopulated orphanage.

He'd grown up alright, if he was to say so himself.

He was a good man—as in, good looking and the best at his job.

People thought he was good as in nice, too, and Jazz always smiled his dazzling smile and answered with a cocky or flirting remark.

Truth was, people thought his job as Third in Command of the Civilian Government and Head of Special Operations of the Enforcers was just taking care of organizing the monthly festival, or whatever, and help his superior officers deal with their work.

He did a lot more than that, including, but not restricted to, overseeing the safe travelings from one Protectodome to another and dealing with rumors of underground groups trying to overthrow the Civilian Government.

But those were just rumors, so nobody would think he was needed to deal with something that wasn't real.

Which just reinforced his position as The Best.

Although, sometimes being The Best was more trouble than it was worth.

And that's one of the reasons he's outside the Protectodome in a prototype stealth Cybertronian with specially designed scanners to get more information about the Black Beasts.

A prototype that has, surprise surprise, simply shut down and cut him from any kind of contact with the military units dealing with the Black Beasts _and_ with the Protectodome.

He's alone and in the dark.

With a loud curse, he kicks the panel with as much strength as the weird angle he is in inside the cramped and small space of the cockpit allows him.

He rests his head in his hands while taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. If he only managed to reroute enough power to send a databurst through _any_ communications line, he could send the information he's managed to gather, but even _that_ is proving difficult.

So.

He's going to die, and it will be for nothing, because what he's managed to get about the Black Beasts will be lost with him.

And he's going to leave Fowler on his own.

His next breath is shakier at that thought, and he curls some more into himself as he remembers.

He always knew his curiosity would get him in trouble…

_"__Hey, Fowler!"_

_"__Don't call me that."_

_"__But it's your name, isn't it?"_

_"__And I'm also your superior officer."_

_"__Aw, c'mon! You're no fun."_

_"__Maybe you could learn a thing or twenty, Captain Smith."_

_"__That's not my name."_

_"__That's not what your file says."_

_"__Well, Ronald has a sense of humor!"_

_"__That's not my name."_

_"__That's not what your file says."_

And then he gave him that deadpanned glare, and greetings were over.

_"__And, talking about files…"_

_"__I thought I told you to stop snooping? What do you want blackmail information for, anyway?"_

_"__Is not about blackmail now, sir."_

Fowler went silent then, because Jazz was being proper, and that only happened when the situation was _serious_.

They were silent the rest of the walk, and once they reached Fowler's apartment, the man closed the door and activated the safety measures only a few selected people knew about.

_"__What is it?"_

_"__I was _snooping around_ the profile files of the latest Enforcer recruits when I became curious."_

_"__Never a good thing."_

_"__Got worse when I found what I was looking for. Or rather… Tell me, who was the Civilian Government Commander before Prime?"_

_"__His father, Sebastien Prime."_

_"__And the Second in Command before you?"_

_"__August Prime. He got promoted when his father went to the _Iacon_ Protectodome to take charge of it, and I got his position because I was his Third back then. What are all these questions—?"_

_"I'm getting to it. So, Prime goes away and Prime Junior takes his job. But none of them were Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers, were they? And neither were you back then. So, who was?"_

_"__It was…"_

_"__Go on, _who_ was it?"_

_"__I… I don't know. I never saw them…"_

_"__Neither did I. No one did. Sure, they could have been drowning in paperwork all day long, but know the funny thing? However was Commander-in-Chief _is not on the records_."_

_"__The Hall of Records—"_

_"__Sir, with all due respect, _seriously_? The Black Day was already long past by then. Thing is, there _should_ have been records of them, even if the ones of the Commander-in-Chief before them were lost with the old Hall, but there aren't."_

_"_… _It gets worse, doesn't it."_

_"__You bet. Chalk the missing info about the Commander-in-Chief to a malfunction, a glitch, a power surge, _whatever_. It's not the only incongruous record."_

_"__There are more?"_

_"__I got curious after that, so I did a more in-depth search and sure, there are people upholding positions since before the Black Day, so any records of their predecessors are simply lost, but others… They're even in the Military."_

_"__What?"_

_"__The Air Commander, for example. Did you know Steve Reeds got the position the week after joining the Air Force? And there's no reason _why_. No death record, no demotion, or transfer or whatever you can cook up in that overworking brain of yours. And neither was for any of the other missing charges. In fact, according to the records, _you_ have always been Commander-in-Chief."_

_"_What_?"_

_"__And Reeds Air Commander, and Greg Allen Security Chief… I could go on, but I think you'd rather I do not."_

_"__No, I… I need some time to…"_

_"__Do you want me to get a doctor? You're not looking too peachy…"_

_"_… _There are some meds in the kitchen."_

_"__On it."_

It took an hour of silence and just sitting on the sofa, nursing a glass of water each, for Fowler's migraine to recede enough for him to process things.

They concluded it was some kind of sabotage, and that Jazz's unofficial mission would be to get as much information about the lack of information as he could, for them to try to get to the one messing the records.

The next day, Jazz was called to the same information gathering mission that has left him stranded outside the Protectodome with communications down.

He's beginning to suspect there is a lot more going on than someone playing with the records.

Why can't anyone remember the non-existent officers?

And… He has really had his mind flash before his eyes.

He lets out a hollow laugh at the thought, curling tighter into himself and looking up to what he knows is an open panel barely far enough for him to straighten his arms.

He could have never had that repaired without some light.

He really is going to—

His thoughts cut off with a shrill scream as a wave of energy courses through the vehicle and his body, arcing too shiny arcs of electricity running over the metal surrounding him before his sight flashes white.

A second after that, or what he thinks is a second, he finds himself huffing and as sprawled as possible on the once more functioning Cybertronian cockpit, screens flashing with messages about rebooting programs and systems.

"Not funny!" He shouts, banging a fist against a wall, and a tired chuckle answers him, making him jump with a yelp before he realizes there's an open communications line. "Hey! Is somebody out there?! Do you copy?!"

"Quit shouting, I hear you loud and clear." The same breathless tired voice answers, and it is the rasp in it that helps him identify it.

"Air Commander." He breathes out in relief, a big smile appearing on his face as he looks down at the screen telling him about the open line almost as if it showed the man himself.

"Head of Special Operations." The voice answers, and he can't help his breathless bout of laughter.

"Oh, wow! I can't believe I'm alive! Did you do that?"

"Leave the talk for later. Is everything working? Can you get back to the Protectodome on your own?"

He turns to the rest of the screens, showing only green, and his smile grows.

"Everything looks fine. Let me try to get this chunk of metal running." There's a soft chuckle from the other end, but Jazz is busy putting the panel back as it was and closing it, thanking Primus that he hasn't messed up anything important enough to leave it irreparable, and tries the engine.

It purrs as loud and ready as his high performance hover-car's, and he whoops in victory.

"Get going, then. The Black Beasts are gone, but I'll shadow you until we're back at the Protectodome. And no lazying around!" He laughs again, already steering the prototype back to where his once again working scanners show the Protectodome to be.

"Aye, aye, Air Commander, sir! I'll have your pretty Seeker tail-fins strain to keep up with me!" He answers cheekily, too happy about his continued existence to check his tone or words when talking to such a high-standing officer of the Military.

No answer comes back for some seconds as he drives as fast as the engine allows, but there's a soft amused huff before the line tuns down to 'passive'.

Jazz is too busy grinning to notice, but his brain marks it as the Air Commander still being alive.

When the Cybertronian's automatic docking programming comes online at the proximity to the Protectodome, Jazz lets himself fall back onto his seat in peals of laughter.

He's the first person to get lost outside the Protectodome and come back.

He's practically bouncing as he waits for the cockpit to open and let him out on the docks as the docking procedure goes on, starting with the entrance to the intermediate area for decontamination to the anchorage to the docks.

When the alert about cockpit opening flashes, he barely restrains himself, watching screens and panels click back and sweep away to leave the front of the small space free for the pressurized seams to release the clamp with a hiss of air and the black metal to open outwards in three parts, the upper two up and to the sides and the lower one, with the magnetized clamps for his special boots to lock on and let him walk, downwards, the tip lying softly over the ramp that will take him to ground level.

Instead of walking down calmly and almost regally, as the last of the pilots are doing, Jazz jumps out with a loud whoop, completely clearing the Cybertronian's lowering ramp and rushing down the concrete one as he tries to keep his balance and not land on his face.

Once he gets to ground level, he manages to stop with a couple of hopping steps, hands on his thighs as he hunches down to regain his breathing before he straightens exaggeratedly, taking a really deep breath and puffing out his chest as he opens his arms as wide as they can go.

He is alive, and back in the stinky docks of the _Nemesis_ reeking of oil and the tar-like thing they use to seal the Cybertronian's hulls, and a lot of chemicals that make his nose and throat itch and his mouth dry, but he has never smelt sweeter air.

"Take that! Not even the Black Beasts and the Black Plague can deal with the Jazzmeister!" He shouts, turning to his Cyertronian and pointing at it triumphantly, like it could deliver the message to the dangers of the outer world.

He breaks down in breathless laughter after that, letting himself fall to sit cross-legged on the floor and hunching a bit forwards, his adrenaline high starting to subside.

"Are you done yet?"

The voice is dry and deadpanned and even a bit annoyed, but it sounds relieved too, and, even if it hadn't, it's the best sound of the world to him right now.

He arcs backwards, throwing his head back so that he can stare at the group of people behind him upside down, and his bright smile turns positively blinding.

"Prowler!" He squeaks, climbing to his feet and finally getting his breathing under control as his happiness tampers off a bit. "I never thought I would say this, but you're just the sight for weary optics, my mech!"

The other man stares at him with a look that screams he thinks he has finally lost it, but the usual seriousness isn't there.

Instead, a smile is on his lips, trembling as if trying not to grow larger.

Behind him, August Prime has his lower face covered with a hand while his shoulders shake with the same laughter dancing in his blue eyes, and the Supreme Commander has a dumbfounded look on his face, his lips twitching as if he can't decide whether to smile or grimace.

Ryan Shepherd lets out a bark of laughter before approaching him, and Jazz gives him a confused look, even though he can't stop smiling. The doctor makes a vague gesture at his head before stopping in front of him and reaching for a hand-held medical scanner, and he reaches up with a hand to have it hover over his head—

And finds resistance in the shape of his static-charged hair, sticking up all the way like someone shoved a giant cotton ball on his head.

Seeing that he has shoulder-length curly black hair kept in tight small braids against his skull, he must be a sight worthy of the reactions he's getting.

When he can't feel any kind of braid, only fuzzy hairs intertwining with each other and trying to get as far away from his scalp as possible, Jazz groans.

It will be a pain to straighten his extremely curly hair and braid it all once more.

But, he's alive, which means he _will_ have the chance to do so.

His smile lights his face once more, growing when the doctor pockets the scanner with a nod, giving him the all clear.

"Hey, nice look! Where did you get it?" He turns to the two approaching men, dressed in Tetrajet pilot's uniforms, one looking unimpressed and the other far too cheerful.

The first has short black hair slicked back, and is dressed in blue with his jacket's flaps, shoulders and sides white, with forearms and gloves black, as well as the back of his calves, a line from knee to ankle on the front, and the body of the shoes, along the straps holding various pockets on his chest and hips.

The other is dressed in dark purple, with the same pattern of white, plus the bags carried on his hips, and a more vibrant shade of it on his forearms and the back of his gloves, and on the patterns of his calves. His hair is dark brown and hanging to his shoulders, and there's a stubby beard all around his sharp smile.

He knows immediately that he's the one who has talked.

"Same place you guys got _those_." He answers, pointing at their waists…

Both of them look down, and groan when they realize what he's talking about.

Their uniforms are armored, meaning that their pieces-like appearance is because they are really pieces that have been attached to a base clothing uniform, buttons and straps keeping them together and in place visibly, and making knee-guards and the division between feet and calf on the boots, and forearm and upper arm, a necessity to allow unhindered movement.

Unfortunately, it also means the crotch area needs to be uncovered, something that wouldn't be a problem… if the lower layer was the same color as the upper.

As it is, the splotch of white on the otherwise colorful uniforms is entirely too visible and eye-catching, something Jazz is sure has caused many awkward situations.

"Oh, come on! Why does everybody look at this first?!" The long-haired male whines, and the other lets out a long suffering sigh as he looks at the ceiling. "It's not our fault that the base layer has to be a different color _per engineering and medical purposes_, so _why_ do we have to suffer the humiliation?!"

"Just shut up, Grant. You walked right into it and dragged me along, _as always_, so it should be me complaining." The blue-clad man grumbles, glaring at his companion.

Jazz snickers, and The Hatchet, still next to him, elbows him for it, because they are still Air Force, and there's the Supreme Commander standing right there, even if he's looking at them with a hint of annoyance and tiredness speaking of it not being the first time he's heard such complaints.

Air Force.

Mind flashing back at his rescuer, Jazz looks around at the much larger Cybertronian docked next to his tiny prototype, and the Tetrajets on the direction the two pilots have come from, looking over the uniformed men and women making their way out of the docks, trying to see if he can find the one guy who staid behind and saved his—

There's an empty docking spot between two Tetrajets.

"The Air Commander's not back yet?" He asks, and the two pilots stop their bickering and look back at him with suspicious looks.

"And how would you know Reeds is the one who's late?" The purple-clad man asks after they've taken a look at what holds his attention, the empty gorge on the ground the craft will rest in showing nothing unusual when compared to the others.

Before he can answer, the part of wall the empty docking area is resting against opens, and its Tetrajet is pushed through, loud whirring of the tracks carrying it in and the clicking of moorings snapping in place and locking it to the fuel lines and the dock sounding loud in the sudden silence.

The two pilots start to make their way to it, even though the docking process isn't finished and the cockpit, indistinguishable from the rest of the black fuselage except for the fact they know it's on the nose-cone, has yet to open.

Almost without thought, Jazz follows.

"Captain Smith?"

"That's not my name." He answers automatically, not even turning to see the group start to walk after them.

He stops next to the two pilots at the end of the ramp, earning curious looks, but he doesn't look away from the still closed cockpit, the noise of the docking procedure dying down.

"To answer your question, I knew it was him missing because he was the one to track me down and save my sorry chassis." The looks on him turn from confused and curious to startled, and he lets a lazy smirk appear on his lips as he watches the depressurizing rushes of white vapor come out of the cockpit seams before they start moving. "Fragging prototype shut down suddenly, and you'll have to ask him about the how, but there was a sudden rush of electricity and, _ta-da_, power's back." He gestures a bit to his head as if to prove that there really was a surge of energy as he explains.

The cockpit's ramp touches the concrete ground with a soft hiss as the craft's movements stop, but the shape on the seat doesn't move.

Jazz's smile vanishes as the two pilots rush to their unmoving Air Commander.

"What the…?"

The doctor's halfway up when the two men crowded inside the cockpit step back, helping the third to his feet.

The Air Commander's mainly white body, with the chest patterns red and the calves' blue, as well as the forearms and gloves, is almost limp on the shoulders of his two wingmates, head hanging limply and dark brown hair covering the upper half of his face, but his open mouth taking in deep breaths and the pale skin are visible.

Too pale, seeing how the picture on the profile files is of a chocolate-tanned man.

Shepherd runs his scanner over him, arms around the other pilots' shoulders and hands on his hips to keep him upright, and relaxes a bit with a small sigh, gesturing for the three men—or two and a half-conscious body, by the looks of it—to follow him down to ground level.

"It's alright, he's fine." The doctor says to the group as he walks back to them, pocketing his scanner again. "It's just low blood sugar. He'll be better after eating something." He explains, and Jazz relaxes with a relieved sigh. "Damn Black Beasts don't have the decency to attack _after_ dinner, instead of _before_." He grumbles, walking to stop next to the two highest commanding officers.

"You would think if they had the decency to do that they would also have it to stop attacking completely." The blue-clad pilot answers almost nonchalantly, releasing his grip on the Air Commander when they get off the ramp and the man straightens on his own, still looking pale but not as sickly as before. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Better." He rasps in answer, his voice sounding low and tired, but at least strong enough to be heard by everybody present. "I just need some food, you heard the doctor."

"Permission to go to the kitchen and order something for you?" The purple-clad man asks with a small smile that looks slightly mischievous, earning a calculating look from his superior officer.

"I'd rather have Carter do it, instead." The pilot makes a face that looks too much like a pout not to be called so, and the blue-clad one rolls his eyes as he crosses his arms against his chest.

"And I'd rather keep an eye on you." The black-haired man answers, staring down at the other two.

"Oh, come on, guys. I'm not _that_ bad." The purple-clad argues with a scowl.

"You're worse." Is the immediate answer, spoken in unison, from the other two.

"Just, go. I'll be by after debriefing." The two pilots look at their Air Commander as if he's ordered them to let him go solo against a whole assault of Black Beasts, and the man lets out a tired and slightly annoyed huff, looking as steady on his feet as if nothing had happened when he crosses his arms against his chest and glares at them. "Civilian Third Jazz here will be my crutch if I need one, so go get some food that will stay in our stomachs. I'm sure he won't mind having something to eat either."

"Nope, not at all." He answers chirpily, because he will really appreciate some food, and helping the guy who helped him is something he'll do gladly, more so after him not using that dull surname that was forced on him.

The two uniformed men exchange a look before turning to their Air Commander and saluting.

After repeating the gesture to the Supreme Commander, they go away, and Jazz puts a hand on the pilot's shoulder to stabilize him when he staggers a bit.

"Thanks."

"I should be the one saying that." He answers with a small, real smile, and gets a half one in return.

"Nothing to be thankful for. You're the one who put up that beacon." He blinks at that, and looks in amusement at where two technicians are trying to put whatever mess he did in his Cybertronian back together.

"Huh. And here I thought I hadn't managed anything."

"Air Commander Reeds. Would you mind giving an explanation for your insubordination?" The Supreme Commander asks, standing tall and menacing with his arms crossed against his broad chest.

"I went to aid an ally as soon as I picked up his distress call, sir." He answers calmly, trying to straighten a bit more, and Jazz takes off his hand for the sake of appearances.

"And how, exactly, could you help someone whose Cybertronian had _shut down_?"

"By giving said Cybertronian a start-up charge." The Supreme Commander looks surprised for all of a second before glowering again, and Jazz takes a step back when the towering man approaches.

"You got lucky once, Reeds. Do _not_ try your luck again." He hisses, leaning down to be almost face to face with the Air Commander, who just looks up at him with unyielding eyes, standing tall and proud and without a hint of tiredness.

"I'll try not to let the situation come to that, then." Is the cocky answer, and the taller man steps away with a dark scowl.

"For your own good, see to it." The Supreme Commander growls as he walks out of the docks, Prime and the doctor following after giving the tanned man a thankful nod and smile and a warning glare, respectively.

"That went well." The Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers deadpans. Looking between the last two men nonplussed. "I would like to thank you for keeping an eye on Captain Smith, Air Commander Reeds."

"No need to. All those outside the Protectodome are under my command, my responsibility, and I like the numbers of departures to be the same of arrivals." The tanned man answers simply before starting to walk away, Jazz falling into step at one side and Fowler at the other, but he doesn't look like he's about to keel over. "Would you join us for a late dinner, Commander-in-Chief Fowler?"

"I'm afraid I have duties to return to, Air Commander. Perhaps another time." And the look he gives Jazz without them making eye-contact tells him everything.

They will keep looking into the faulty records, and the man between them could prove a valuable asset. So do _not_ piss off a possible future ally during their time together.

Jazz hums softly under his breath, a tune so old that its origins were lost with the Hall of Records, and that serves the double purpose of calming him down and letting Fowler know he's got the message—

The Air Commander freezes in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide and unseeing staring straight ahead as the two Enforcers whirl around to look at him with worry.

"Sir? Are you alright?" Jazz asks softly when his lips start forming soundless words, and it takes him a second for his training to kick in and make sense of what the other is saying.

Or what he's reciting, to be more accurate.

Lyrics.

Forgotten lyrics of his forgotten melody.

"_And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve…_" He whispers, lips moving in unison with the other man's as he gives sound to a language he has never even know existed, to words that he shouldn't be able to understand…

And yet, he not only knows what they mean, but feels dread pooling in his chest as they slam a bit too close to home.

"_So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean._" He startles out of his growing fear to the still unseeing Air Commander, already pale face turning even paler. "_Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…_"

"_Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between…_" Jazz continues when wide dark eyes meet his, and he starts to shake. "_Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies…_"

"_Across this new divide._" Both finish in unison, and Jazz knows that something has changed.

Suddenly, his wild guess about something in their world being wrong stops being a suspicion and becomes a certainty.

"A klik." Reeds says loudly, and Jazz's core shudders with too many feelings as he follows the man down another corridor, Fowler on their heels, wide-eyed and speechless.

None of them makes a sound even after the door to someone's—he suspects Reeds'—quarters clicks closed behind them, the sound of a lock immediately following, for the Air Commander lifts a hand to stall any words.

Some seconds later, there's a knock on the door, and the tanned man quickly unlocks it to let, to the others' surprise, the Military Third in Command inside.

Once the door is locked again, he walks to a wall, pushes on the part next to the corner of the desk, and a barely audible sound almost immediately snuffed out is the only clue they have to the soundproof and scrambler routines being activated.

Jazz exchanges a look with Fowler at that, but none of them speak as the Air Commander sits heavily on the chair, gesturing towards the neatly made bed for the other three to take a seat.

The two Enforcers doubt for a second after Sanders sits down, but finally comply.

"What was _that_?" Fowler asks, too uncomfortable not knowing to keep silent.

"An old song, you know that. A song I've known since forever."

"But I thought you said you didn't remember the lyrics?"

"I didn't." He answers before looking up to meet the Air Commander's gaze, and he has a feeling there's something really wrong in those dark irises. "I do now."

"Do you even know what they mean?" The Commander-in-Chief asks suspiciously, as if he's trying to judge if it would be better to call a doctor.

"Remember what I told you I found?" He says as answer, as conversationally as if he was talking about how warm the weather control systems have made the day's temperature.

Fowler stiffens.

"I fear there may be more to it than just a prankster. Think, sir." He answers, and the man looks away with calculations and strategies and who knows what else already rushing through his mind. "Papers can be lost and data deleted, but how do you erase the minds of a whole Protectodome?"

"Thinking about the lack of officers before us?" The Air Commander asks seriously, leaning against the back of his chair. "Because believe me, the joke that runs around about me having held my position for so long that no one remembers the previous Air Commander is no joke."

"We checked." The Communications Officer confirms simply, and the other two can only nod.

"Any other discrepancies? This… possibility you're suggesting is…"

"Too big?" He supplies the Commander-in-Chief, who nods in acceptance of the words.

"Names and memories." The Third of the Military answers, and Fowler frowns.

"Names? As in… as in someone calling you something that isn't your name but feels…"

"Right." The man finishes with a nod, and the other Enforcer looks at Jazz with a frown.

"What?"

"When you got out of the Cybertronian… I thought it was you being adrenaline high, so I paid it no mind but… you called me 'Prowler'." He blinks in surprise at that, because he remembers calling Fowler when he realized he was there, but he doesn't remember using _that_ name…

And yet, he can _feel_ it. There's a… a _righteousness_ in that single word, far more than there is in 'Ron', 'Ronald' or even 'Fowler'.

"And it rang true." Reeds comments, eyes locking with his superior officer's, but, to their surprise, the Commander-in-Chief shakes his head.

"It didn't. It felt… annoying. And yet, it was familiar. More like…" He gestures with a hand, as if trying to catch his next words, and Jazz smiles widely as it dawns him.

"Like a nickname? Like me calling you Ronald?" He receives a glare for that before the man's green eyes widen.

"Actually, yes. It did."

"We've been through that too." The Air Commander says when they fall silent, straightening in his chair. "Mind a little experiment? See if you recognize our other names?" The Enforcers look at each other before turning to him with a nod. "Starscream and Soundwave."

Jazz's heart does a funny stuttering thing that is absolutely _not_ funny at that.

And then, he knows.

"Starscream." He repeats, and he finds himself slowly turning to see Sanders—no. Not Sanders. "Soundwave."

The Communications Officer nods.

"And yet, 'Jazz' sounds right." Reeds—or Starscream, what is he supposed to call him?—wonders aloud, once more regaining their attention, and he knows it's an opening for an explanation.

"The Black Day. I was a survivor. I don't remember anything of it, or of before, but the medic said that I'd told them my name was Jazz, even though I don't remember doing that… Do you think…?" He asks softly, his chest constricting with something too complex to describe.

"Perhaps it jarred something loose." The Air Commander agrees with a nod, eyes reflecting the light as he tilts his head in a way that makes them seem red. "You keep using expressions and words others don't."

"Wha—?"

"I'll have your pretty Seeker tail-fins strain to keep up with me." The tanned man quotes, and he sees nothing wrong with that sentence except…

What's a Seeker?

"Soundwave did the same." The Military Second in Command adds simply, the name rolling easily off his tongue, and, for an instant, the world feels right.

"The Jazzmeister." Fowler cuts in, looking at the floor without seeing it. "Optics. _Mech_." He adds before letting his head fall into his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "Frag it, this situation, all this is so… so… unbelievable… Nuts and bolts, this makes no sense!"

And he freezes.

They all freeze.

Because it makes no sense, yet they all have understood what Fowler meant with that seemingly meaningless expression.

"I… we… who else…?" The Commander-in-Chief whispers, looking up at them with fearful eyes and, for a second, the light makes them shine blue.

"No idea. We've kept it between us, just in case…" Reeds doesn't need to finish that sentence, because that's exactly what all the others are thinking.

Nuts and bolts, indeed.

"And your voice was all I heard, that I get what I deserve." Jazz whispers, looking down at his trembling hands. "So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean. Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes…" His voice cracks as his trembling grows harsher, and he huddles into himself.

"Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between." Starscream's voice continues, soft and raspy and sounding far more ominous than it should. "Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies… across this new divide."

* * *

**AN:** Couldn't help the song, it just... wrote itself... and it's _so fitting_... (**IMPORTANT!** : My computer died. Then came to life. Then died again. Which means this chapter is up because I had it in the Doc Manager. Best case scenario, I get my computer back and can get back to writting in a couple days. Worst case scenario, I won't get it back, period, and I'll have to get a new one and get used to it. Whatever the outcome, I doubt there will be a new chapter next weekend, since I lost every single one I had ready to upload. I'm going to start saving them in the Manager from now on, but until then... By the way, I apologize for attaching the note here and in this fashion, but I'm writting it from my phone, and it doesn't like to start new paragraphs... Now, on with the rest of the original AN.)

More characters, including one that had been kind of introduced before, so that means the game of 'Who is Who' keeps going. If you want to know who is who, just say so and I'll PM you with the answer or a full list, even. I just don't want to spoil the fic, so it's NOT going to be on an AN. That doesn't mean I'll be annoyed if you ask for it, or for confirmation to your guesses, so don't worry about asking.

Updated first and third chapter so that the links actually show up.

Last bunch of characters:

- ammotu . deviantart (.com) / gallery / 39305188?offset=0 : Jazz. I know I said the rest weren't related to the story, but it felt like spoiling the fic otherwise...

- beriuos . deviantart (.com) / art / MNC-HumanizedSeeker-277599565 : Flight uniforms, but, story aside, I _love_ this one.

**Angel Heart:** Thanks for the review! I hope this new chapter has cleared some more things. And I'm _so glad_ you liked the speech, I thought it a bit OOC for the character, but then I remembered who it was and... kind of ended up laughing, but couldn't just undo it, so... Thanks once more, and I hope to hear from you again!


	5. Darker than Black

The room is dark despite the light streaming in through the window.

_"__I can't see anything!"_

_"__Neither of us can see anything."_

He's siting on the bed, head resting on his crossed hands, as if praying.

_"__Do your scans pick anything?"_

_"__What do you think?"_

He's not.

_"__That we're down the deep end here."_

_"__Won't you mute it?"_

He has never believed in Gods.

_"__Will it make it any lighter?"_

_"__Primus, give me strength…"_

And yet…

_"_… _I'm dreaming, right?"_

_"__Get ready."_

"Please… let it be a dream…"

_"__Look out!"_

_"__In there!"_

Deep in his chest, deeper than his beating heart, he knows it isn't.

_"__Are you alright?!"_

_"__I will try to hold them off."_

His breathing hitches and he hunches a bit more into himself, body starting to shake.

_"__But—!"_

_"__Run!"_

He forces a sob down his throat, hands wrapping around his shoulders as he curls even tighter.

_"__I can't leave you!"_

_"__You have to. They _need_ you."_

He stumbles out of the bed, ripping the sheets when they tangle with his legs.

_"__Come back."_

_"_… _I'm sorry…"_

He rushes into the bathroom and meets his reflection.

_"_… _I need to save you…"_

The man looking back is not him.

_"__I'm here!"_

He's someone with a name that's not his.

_"__Do you want a piece of me?"_

Someone that's not real.

_"__Come and get me!"_

He slams his fist into the mirror with a loud roar.

_"__Keep going…"_

Blood droplets and glass shards rain down, and something in his chest freezes.

_"__Leave me…"_

He feels numb.

_"_… _alone."_

His feet step back and his uninjured hand reaches for the first aid kit in the cupboard.

_"__It will be hard…"_

The shards are taken out before he goes to the kitchen to wash the blood off.

_"__We won't be there…"_

He bandages his hand, simply staring to see if there's red tainting the white.

_"__I won't be there…"_

White.

_"__Just you…"_

With a splash of red.

_"_… _in the wreckage."_

The door to the bathroom closes with a loud slam, hiding blood on white tiles.

_"__You're going to need me…"_

One look at his hover-car is all it takes for him to start walking.

_"__But I'm losing myself…"_

People walk by, children laugh, a man speaks through his phone, a woman coos at a crying baby.

_"__You're going to lose me…"_

Blobs of color rush by, someone shouts loudly, shop signs flash brightly.

_"__I can't escape…"_

Just shadows and white noise.

_"__I left you…"_

The automatic doors of Enforcers Headquarters open, and the cool air of the hall numbs his skin.

_"__You were the only one I had…"_

People salute him or ask questions, and he nods and answers without knowing what he's saying.

_"__The only friend I had…"_

His mouth opens and sounds come out.

_"__You are the only one left…"_

He doesn't recognize their faces.

_"__Promise you will forget me…"_

One more pair of eyes, another mouth curling into a smile, strands of hair swaying with nods.

_"__I don't want to hurt you…"_

The elevator doors open, and he sees desks.

_"__When I've forgotten you…"_

People looking over papers, scrolling down screens, sipping from Styrofoam cups.

_"__Please, don't cry…"_

Jazz.

_"__Everything will be alright."_

A coffee mug in one hand, leaning against a desk as he talks with the one sitting on the chair.

_"__There's still hope."_

His hair in his braided style, his smile so warm not even the cold air of the building can get to it.

_"__No matter how long it takes…"_

Black jeans, white shirt with black sleeves and a blue and red stripe with a four over his heart.

_"__You will always be there…"_

He moves away from the desk, waving back at whoever he leaves behind, and steps closer to him.

_"__I will always trust you."_

He looks at him, and his eyes are blue.

_"__I can feel myself slipping away."_

"Hey, Boss. Welcome back."

_"__I wanted you to be safe."_

The mug crashes loudly.

_"__I had to leave you."_

The body in his arms is warm, melting the numbness from his skin.

_"__Forgive me…"_

His throat aches, and he lets out the sob he's been trying to keep down since before he woke up.

_"__Forget me…"_

Strong arms encircle his back and warm hands lay on his shoulder-blades.

_"__I won't be there to protect you…"_

His tears burn warm trails down his cheeks, wetting the cloth his face is pressed against.

_"__I failed you…"_

The sound of the beating heart is loud in the ear he has pressed against a taut neck.

_"__My friend…"_

"Prowler…?"

_"__I wish I could hear that stupid song…"_

His knees wobble and they're suddenly on the floor.

_"__The one you're always humming…"_

The grip around his torso tightens, drawing him closer, and he takes in a shaky breath.

_"__I guess I'll have to be the one singing this time."_

"I remembered black skies… The lightning all around me…"

_"__I wish there had been light…"_

"I remembered each flash… As time began to blur…"

_"__I wish I could have seen you one last time…"_

"Like a startling sign… That fate had finally found me… And your voice—"

_"__I wish I could hear your voice…"_

"Your voice is all I heard…" A whisper in his ear when he falters. "That I get what I deserve…"

_"__I don't deserve it."_

"I'm sorry…"

_"_… _I'm sorry Jazz."_

"I'm sorry I left you…"

_"__I hope you make it."_

"It's alright, Prowl. You came back."

_"__Because I won't."_

The crack in his chest finally breaks, and he's sobbing out loud, unable to even form words.

_"_… _I let you down."_

Because it's wrong.

_"__I hope we don't meet again…"_

Jazz's wrong.

_"__Because I won't be coming back this time."_

Nothing will be right ever again.

* * *

When August Prime enters the Enforcers Headquarters, he has to fight to keep from faltering in his step.

There's something dark in the air.

The woman at the information post rushes to meet him, and he can't help but tense.

"Commander Prime, we thought you wouldn't be here until…" Her voice wavers at his slightly confused look. "Would you… mind coming back later?"

For a couple of seconds he can't do nothing but stare.

"Excuse me?" He asks at last, and the woman tries not to fidget too obviously.

"Would you mind coming back when you were scheduled to?"

"Is the Commander-in-Chief in a meeting?"

"No, Sir."

"Then I don't see why I need to wait."

The woman falters, and his eyes widen in realization.

It must have been a real bad migraine if his people are trying to keep the Civilian Government Commander away.

Smiling softly, he nods at the woman, who still looks like she's trying to find her words.

"Don't worry, I'm here as a friend."

And that, apparently, is all she needs, because she lets out a relieved sigh and steps away.

Surprised, although not so much, he steps into the elevator.

He'll keep an eye on Fowler until their scheduled meeting is bound to happen. And if the man's not better by then, he'll adjourn it, and maybe take him home.

The floor he gets down on is even worse than the hall.

There's people working, but they're so silent that one would have to strain their ears to hear them.

There's a 'wet floor' sign in the middle of the corridor, some steps away from the elevator.

Mindful of it, August steps around, and quickly looks at the Enforcers.

All eyes are on him.

He's starting to become really unnerved…

Silently, one of the younger ones stands and approaches him, looking over his shoulder at the curtained office at the other end of the room.

Drew Philips.

A real chatty boy, from Fowler's tales, and one the Enforcer is slowly warming up to.

Now, though, the man is completely silent.

"Commander Prime." He whispers respectfully, giving the patch of wet floor a too wide berth. "We weren't expecting you so soon. Not that _we_ were expecting you but…" And just when it seems his well-known chattiness will make an appearance, a quick look at the bright yellow sign is all it takes to silence him.

"I'm not here out of duty, but as a friend."

Something cold crawls up his back when he sees the surprised yet extremely relieved look on the young man's face.

"Oh, God. Thank you." He whispers, and eagerly gestures for him to go to the office.

He's beginning to think it's a bad idea.

Conscious of his phone and Ryan's number on speed dial, he stops in front of the door and knocks softly.

There are far too many eyes on his back.

The door opens a sliver, and Jazz looks up at him from inside the bright room.

To put it mildly, he's stunned.

If this was a migraine, the lights would be out. And Fowler would be alone, for he hates appearing weak, more so in front of his men.

The door opens wider after Jazz takes a look over his shoulder, letting him in, and he has his phone out when it closes at his back.

The Commander-in-Chief is hunched over his desk, head in his hands and back arcing in long, deep breaths.

"You're early." He almost jumps at the man's voice, and really does so when a hand's suddenly against his arm.

"Take a seat, Commander." Jazz invites with a slightly amused small smile, taking his hand off his arm and gesturing towards the chairs in front of the desk.

"Are you alright?" He asks his Second after giving the Third in Command a grateful nod, taking one of the two chairs for himself.

"I've been better."

"Doesn't the light bother you?" He asks softly, and the man in front of him tenses sharply, head lifting enough to give him a one-eyed glare through his auburn locks.

"_Never_." He hisses, and Prime raises his hands in the universal 'I'm unarmed' gesture, feeling it's the right thing to do.

"Sorry. I thought it was a migraine."

The visible eye vanishes as the head bows again, and there are tremors running down his arms and back.

"I wish."

Jazz steps around the desk and puts a hand on Fowler's shoulder. After a second, the shaking subsides and the man relaxes with a couple of deep breaths.

"What was this that you wanted to discuss?"

"Are you sure you're fine? We can talk about this later—"

"The only reason I'm here instead of back at my apartment is because you requested this meeting. _Talk_."

Knowing better than to argue with a cranky Commander-in-Chief, more so one that snaps at _him_, August straightens in his chair and prepares for the explosion.

Jazz looks at him with narrowed eyes, hand still on Fowler's shoulder, as if knowing he's going to say something they will all regret.

It can't be avoided, though, and sometimes, the blow is better delivered in one quick punch than slow prickling.

"I got a call from Supreme Commander Storm yesterday afternoon, about Jazz's information gathering." Both men tense, and, somehow the room is suddenly colder and he has to fight against a shiver. "The power surge used to jump-start the Cybertronian erased all the data recorded, and they want him to go out again."

Silence.

Jazz's hand tightens its grip around Fowler's shoulder, and the man starts to shake again, his deep breaths longer and slightly tremulous.

"No." He growls at last, and August's not surprised.

"That's what I told Storm. He explained that they aren't asking for another immediate outing, but for Jazz's participation once the stealth Cybertronian has been thoroughly tested and fool-proofed."

"No." And he's surprised then, because it is a sound proposal, but the Commander-in-Chief's tone hasn't changed.

"Fowler, I understand one of your men suffered a close call, but—"

"I've said _no_!" He shouts, straightening suddenly and slamming a fist against his desk with enough strength to make a neat pile of reports and the paperweight on them fall from the table.

His Second's murderous expression turns him to stone.

"Not now, not in a month, not in a _million vorn_!" He screams, and Jazz's hand is the only thing keeping him in his seat. "So go tell that Pit-spawn of Storm that he can go out there _himself_ if he wants a picture of those Black Beasts so badly!"

"Boss, easy. I think you've made your point." His Third interjects calmly, squeezing his superior's shoulder almost reassuringly when the man seems about to continue glaring a hole through the Civilian Commander while shouting his heart out.

"I've fragging better have, or it won't be the Black Beasts they have to worry about anymore." The Commander-in-Chief growls darkly, though much lower than before, and August risks letting out a shaky breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"I'll… talk with Lester." He whispers, swallowing the lump in his throat, never lowering his hands from where they are hovering shakily in front of his chest.

_I'm unarmed_, they seem to say, _and you've got me completely terrified. Please, don't kill me._

August prays to whoever wants to listen for the message to be received.

Miraculously, it seems to be, because Fowler leans back against his chair and relaxes enough that the Civilian Commander can be sure he won't be trying to rip out his throat.

Not at the moment, at least.

"You'd better." He hisses, sounding calmer yet as menacing as before, and he can only nod again.

"Will you go home now? Take things easier for today?" He asks after some seconds, finally lowering his hands, when he notices how puffy and reddened his eyes are, almost bloodshot, and the bandaged hand with red spots staining the pristine white fabric.

It almost looks like he's been crying.

The image of the warning sign outside the doors of the elevator flashes by, but he quickly disregards it.

That simply can't be.

'Crying a river' is an exaggeration, after all.

"If you have nothing else to tell me about, then yes." The Commander-in-Chief grumbles, looking as if he wants nothing else than to not go back to his apartment, yet aching to get away from Headquarters.

"Do I need to call Ryan?"

"Who you need to call is Storm." His Second hisses, and he nods quickly, hands shooting up again without a thought.

"I'll… be going then…" He answers, slowly standing up and walking backwards to the door, both Fowler and Jazz's narrowed eyes following him.

Funny, he'd always thought his Second's eyes were green. Why do they look blue now?

Only when the door to the office clicks closed does he let out a shaky sigh, feeling all the eyes of the rest of Enforcers in the room on his back, but far too worried by those two pairs that he can still feel on him despite the door being between them.

Not wasting another second, he turns on his heel and calmly walks away.

If he hurries a bit more than is polite… well, he's a busy man.

The first thing he does when he's back in his hover-car, though, is call Ryan Shepherd, instead of Lester Storm.

He needs someone to talk to, and the grumpy doctor is the mech for the job.

He's glad he hasn't even started the engine as the thought crosses his mind.

Mech.

Such a strange word…

What does it mean?

And why does it sound so… fitting?

Disregarding it as a consequence of his still too high-strung nerves, he clicks the speed dial and turns on the engine, deciding a calming cup of tea with his old friend at the _Nemesis_ will be the best way to kill two birds with a stone.

"_What is it?_"

August has to smile despite himself as the voice of the doctor echoes grumpily in his car.

"Do you have some time for a cup of tea?"

"_What happened?_" The grumpiness has vanished, replaced by concern, and August blinks before he realizes his voice is shaky.

"Long story short, there was a proposal that wasn't liked. At all."

"_How soon can you be here?_"

"Fifteen minutes, if traffic's bad."

"_I'm on duty, but I'll get you cleared. Someone will accompany you when you get here._"

"Thank you, old friend." He answers gratefully, his voice shaking again but for a completely different reason.

"_Don't thank me yet._" The doctor grumbles, but doesn't cut the call, so they make small talk during the ten minutes it takes the Civilian Commander to arrive to the _Nemesis_.

As told, there's a soldier already there waiting for him, who tells him he'll take him to the Med Bay.

August nods thankfully, almost completely calmed and perfectly in control once more, and follows.

They're halfway there when alarms start blaring, loud horns and blinking red lights filling the base.

"What's going on?" He asks loudly, hunching a bit and fighting the urge to cover his ears.

The soldier, while tense, is not surprised.

"Black Beast proximity alert, Sir! I'll have to ask you to—!"

"No time for that!" A familiar voice shouts, and August turns around to see both Ryan and Lester approach. "To your post, soldier!" The man obeys almost immediately, barely taking the time to salute his superior officers before running away. "Ever seen a battle from the bridge?"

The Civilian Commander's eyes widen as he's guided to the center of operations of the _Nemesis_.

It's a crazy sight, people rushing all over the place, orders and reports being shouted to the point they're hard to understand, screens flashing with maps and scans and too quickly scrolling text.

"Atten_tion_!"

And it all calms down and becomes a perfectly oiled machine with that simple word from the Supreme Commander, the noise lowering to a constant murmur as headphones are placed over heads and the Communications Officer lets his hands dance on the controls.

A second later, the main screen becomes completely green, a large paler line on the bottom of it with data bubbles coming from it signaling the Protectodome's location.

Four red dots appear on the upper side, slowly approaching.

"Situation." The Military Commander orders, and a voice answers from between the many soldiers on the level below, each manning their station.

"Four Ground-based Black Beasts, two Point Heavy, one Light Static and one Runner, Sir."

"What does that mean?" He asks Ryan in a whisper as coordinates and other data start being shouted aloud.

"Two heavily armored and armed Black Beasts, one sniper, or something of the like, and one quick as a lizard underfoot. All of them ground units, if they can be called so." The doctor answers, not looking away from the slowly approaching dots, stopping here and there and moving in an almost erratic pattern.

"There are air units?" He asks in surprise, and the older man nods with a grimace.

"Few, and only appear from time to time, but they're there. Lucky for us, they're not here today."

Pale blue lights emerge from the line that represents the Protectodome, and August doesn't need to ask to know they're the Cybertronian.

Or, judging by their speed, the Tetrajets.

The three blue dots slide gracefully across the screen, in an almost perfect straight line before they move apart almost on top of the red dots.

They start circling them as four more blue dots, slower and moving in a more sinuous pattern, appear outside the Protectodome.

Data bubbles pop up next to them, a small blueprint of the Cybertronian or Tetrajet with a picture of the pilot next to it.

He recognizes the Air Commander and his wingmates immediately as the members of Air Force.

One of the red dots starts moving back the way it had come, while another starts moving faster in what looks like a dance with the Third Wing's own.

"_Got one of the fuckers running already!_" The chirpy voice of Sky Grant bursts through the room, and August barely keeps himself from jumping.

"_Don't get too comfortable, there are still three more left._" The calm Theodore Carter answers, his own dot circling one mostly immobile. "_Damn it all, these things are really reinforced this time._"

"_Commander Storm, this is Air Commander Reeds. Do you copy?_"

"Loud and clear." Lester answers into the microphone attached to his one-eared headphones, and the Civilian Commander has to blink, for he has not seen the man put them on.

"_What's the situation? Are there more of the Black Beasts around?_"

"Not that our scanners can pick up, Air Commander."

"… _I don't like it. They're too far from the Protectodome. They've moved slow enough to get us to intercept on the edge of the furthest scans, but fast enough to get us moving quickly. Sir, I—_"

"Incoming! Four more!" Sanders shouts, cutting through Reeds' worried words as four more red dots appear in the screen, these ones moving as fast as their Tetrajets. "Aerial!"

Three voices curse at once as the dances of the blue dots around the first red ones break with the appearance of the other four.

"_Fall back! We need to put enough distance for the scans to be useful!_" The Air Commander shouts, and the three blue dots twirl and circle some more before starting back towards the Protectodome, meeting the rest of blue dots halfway.

"Reeds, now! Ground Support on site!" Lester shouts, hands clasped tightly around the railway as his eyes never leave the screen, tension visible on every inch of his body.

"_One eighty! Target Aerial!_" The Air Commander orders, the affirmatives of his wingmates quickly following as the three dots separate once more, rounding to intercept the other flying four, far closer to them than the four on ground, and the dance starts again.

One of the blue ground dots blinks out.

Two flying red ones follow.

One of the ground red ones starts to go away, and another soon follows.

The two remaining flying red ones turn around, flying over the retreating two, while the last of the red blinks out of existence.

"_That's it! Run away!_" The Third Wing shouts happily, his whoop echoing in the room as the blue ground dots start to return to the Protectodome with the three airborne ones sweeping the area of the battle.

"_This is not right…_" The Air Commander's voice cuts through the happy shouting, and silence falls. "_This is not right, they're running away too soon._"

"_Come on, Reeds! They're weaker than before, or we're even better than we though. We should be celebrating!_" Grant's happy voice answers quickly.

"_No, we shouldn't. Fall back!_" He shouts, and August winces at the shrillness in his words.

The three flying blue dots break their flight pattern to regroup, and suddenly, the two flying red dots turn around and dart towards them far quicker than they'd moved before, a third appearing suddenly from the top of the screen and quickly catching up with its companions.

"Incoming!" Sanders and Storm shout in unison, and the blue dots quickly break apart as the other three rush between them.

Fear freezes the Civilian Commander, but the ground blue dots had stopped in a line between the aerial ones and the Protectodome, and the red fliers quickly turn around as they get too close.

"_They're going back to you, Air Commander!_" One of the ground units shouts, and August can't keep his dread-filled gasp in.

The ground-based red dots have also turned around, moving quickly, and the three blue fliers are trapped between them.

"Reeds get out of there _now_!" Lester shouts, fists white and eyes wide with horror.

"_Damn it all, where did they come from?!_" Grant shouts, voice tinted with worry and fear, as his dot starts a mad dance around one of the flying ones chasing after him. "_Get it off!_"

"_One eighty, Grant!_" Carter's voice shouts, his own dot seemingly chasing the red after his wingmate despite having another red flier after him.

The Third Wing seems to stay in place for a second, his red hunter going through his dot, before rushing towards the incoming blue one.

For less than a second, the two blue dots become one, before they shoot apart and the two red ones collide and disappear.

"_Yeah! Better luck next time, motherf—_"

"_Fuck!_" August's attention snaps to the Second Wing, and his stomach drops.

While Grant has evaded towards the Protectodome, his wingmate has gone the opposite direction—right into the lines of the red ground units.

"_Mayday! Mayday!_" The fear in the usually calm man's voice is enough to get the Civilian Commander shaking as he watches his dot shake and seemingly bounce in place between the two red ground ones.

"_To space!"_ The Air Commander shouts, and August finally locks onto his own dot, quickly moving towards his trapped wingmate with the last two red flying ones on his tail.

Carter's dot starts shaking on its spot, and, a second later, the Second's goes through it and over one of the red ones.

The two on his tail collide with those on the ground, two vanishing immediately while the others bounce before finally blinking out.

"_Now _that_ is flying and not what those two—_"

"Fall back!" Sanders shouts, but it's too late.

Three more red dots appear on the upper side of the screen, moving fast, and the one at the front merges with the blue one for an instant before they go separate ways.

The blueprint of the Tetrajet attached to the dot starts flashing red… over the nosecone.

The cockpit.

"Reeds!" Storm shouts, watching the blue dot move in a shuddering line, the three red ones on his tail like scavengers waiting for an injured animal to die.

August stops breathing.

"_Get away from my __Trine Leader__!_" Carter _roars_ through the sound system, his own blue dot going through the red ones, who quickly scatter, although one blinks out.

"_I've got him!_" Grant shouts as the Second Wing's dot starts persecuting one of the red while the Third's shadows the Air Commander's, whose flight seems to have stabilized. "_He's flying slower but better, but I can't hail him. Comm must be down._"

"_Just get him out, I __ha__ve this fuckers._" Carter roars as the red dot he's trailing blinks out, the other two blue slowly moving away while the ground based ones, with three more blue ones joining them, arrange themselves on a line in the middle of the screen. "_One more to go and—_"

Carter's dot blinks out.

The Civilian Commander's horrified shout is swallowed by Storm's roar.

The flying red dot finishes the arc it had been in to try to avoid the one shadowing it and flies off the screen.

Silence falls on the bridge.

"_Sir? Supreme Commander Storm? What has happened to Carter? I can't hail him!_" Lester takes in deep breaths, wide eyes still locked on the screen, where only blue dots remain, the two fliers almost by the Protectodome. "_Sir?!_"

"Carter has… fallen."

"_No… No, it can't be, there was only one of those monsters left, and it was fleeing! It can't be!_"

"Get back to the _Nemesis_. All Ground Units, return to the _Nemesis_ in ten if there's no change." A chorus of 'yes sir' answers, but no further word is heard from Grant as his and the Air Commander's dots disappear in the green line that is the _Ark_. "Doctor."

"On it." Ryan answers seriously, giving the Civilian Commander one last somber look before rushing out of the room.

"Go with him." He turns to look at his other long-time friend, and Lester's eyes are dark and worried as they meet his. "Keep an eye on my Air Commander until I get there."

'Please' goes unsaid, but it's loud in his suddenly soft voice, and August doesn't even nod before running out of the bridge.

He manages to catch sight of the doctor before he turns down a corner, and follows.

By the time they get to the docks, he's barely shortened the distance between them.

The area is emptier than it was last time he was here, mostly because, unlike last time, the Tetrajets haven't been the guard units.

There are three empty docking areas on the Tetrajet part of the docks, one of them already opening to allow entrance to its craft.

Ryan is already at the bottom of the concrete ramp.

With an incredulous huff, he approaches at a trot.

He has just arrived next to the doctor when the cockpit opens, and a shocked Grant stumbles out.

The CMO rushes to meet him at the junction between ramps, but the pilot pushes him away with a scowl.

"I'm _fine_." He hisses, stomping down the ramp and looking over the two empty docking areas. "Is it true? Carter is…?" He doesn't finish the sentence, his eyes meeting the Civilian Commander with a pleading look.

The taller man's heart squeezes painfully.

"His signal went out. It didn't light up again." He says simply, and the pilot sags in his feet, Ryan already by his side to help him stay standing.

"No…"

The wall opens to let the second Tetrajet in, and a simple look from the medic has the emotionally stunned Third Wing with August's hands on his shoulders to help him upright, even though the man doesn't seem to notice.

Ryan hurries to the ramp as the craft starts the anchorage procedures, and the Civilian Commander can't help the worried frown on his features as he sees the shape of the nosecone.

It's a completely different image than seeing a blueprint with an area colored red.

Instead of the polished and pointy-ended oval that is an unharmed cockpit, this one seems to have been caved in, one side bent inwards almost halfway, and he can't help his shuddering breath.

The cockpits are small enough as they are, crowded almost to the point the pilots can barely shift inside, and the alloy that makes the outer hull of the Cybertronian and Tetrajets is the strongest yet lightest ever invented.

To have any part of the craft be harmed like that is a horrifying possibility. To have such damage happen to the cockpit can be lethal.

But Reeds has managed to fly back.

There's a loud hiss as the cockpit depressurizes, white vapor hiding it for an instant—before the most ear-splitting screeching sound fills the docks, snapping Grant out of his mind with a loud curse and forcing all of them to cover their ears.

Some seconds later, the sound stops with a loud thumping sound.

Only one of the upper lids of the cockpit has risen, the one from the undamaged side, and the lower lid has fallen all the way to the concrete ramp, the joint connecting it to the caved in part spitting sparks wildly.

There's black smoke coming from the inside of the cockpit.

The Civilian Commander and the pilot rush to climb the ramp, while the doctor stands in front of the lower lid, shielding his face with one hand.

"Air Commander, can you hear me?! Reeds!"

A shape hurls out from the smoke-filled cockpit, almost falling on top of Ryan as its footing on the metallic ramp fails.

With a yelp, the white-haired man manages to catch the blackened pilot before he smashes to the ground face first, and the other two quickly get to his side to help.

The man's uniform is blackened and burned in some places, though not too much. One leg is hanging limply, with the foot at an impossible angle showing it is broken, and so is the arm from the same side. Half his hair is smoking, burns covering the side of his face.

He has his eyes closed and is coughing nastily, dry and puffing out small clouds of smoke and too big and too many blood droplets, a string of dark red slipping down his chin.

"Th—Thun—?" A new bout of coughing cuts the Air Commander's words, ending with him throwing up a good two mouthfuls of blackened blood.

"Don't try to speak, we need to get you to Med Bay right now." Ryan orders, asking with a glance, and August, as the tallest and strongest, carefully maneuvers the injured man into his arms, wincing at his cries. "He must have broken ribs too. God, he's lucky he's even alive!"

When they get down the ramp, a group of doctors and nurses is running to them with a stretcher, and the Civilian Commander quickly complies when they reach them, carefully putting the man down.

Ryan rushes off with the rest of doctors crowding around the stretcher, and August is left alone with a really scared pilot on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

"I'm not going to lose him too, am I?" Grant whispers, voice so pained that the only thing the taller man can do is embrace him, as if he was a small child, and the Third Wing clings to him readily, burrowing his face in his dirtied uniform.

"Of course not. He's made it this far, and Ryan's the best doctor there is. Besides, he still has you to look after. He will make it." He answers softly, and the man in his arms starts to cry.

* * *

**AN:** So... I'm back. Actually, I've had my computer since Wednesday, and this chapter practically wrote itself on Monday (long train rides are boring). The real trouble came when it was time to get it ready to post, i.e. writing it on a Word and copying it to the Doc Manager, making sure everything's is as it should, look it over to correct typos, and all that.

The reason it took me so long to get it ready was the 'Curse of the Writer', in which 'the Writer knows _too much_'.

I hope the first part of this chapter isn't excessively confusing, since it isn't meant to be _too much_, and if you see any mistakes and the like, please let me know. Because every time I read it, I break down crying. Every. Single. Time. Without exception. And I can't just become detached, because then I miss errors, so... Tears make for difficult mistake-finding. If you find anything, please do tell.

Now, important announcement:

There will be no pairings in this fic. The only Romance will be Bromance. If you think it looks otherwise, you're free to think so, but it isn't it.

Also, about last chapter: I've been told a lot of good things about the song at the end, and it may be just me misunderstanding some messages, but just to make it clear, it is _not mine_. It's Linkin Park's _New Divide_, from 'Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen'. If you find some more lyrics, they're from it, too (I can't write poetry, least of all songs).

**Angel Heart:** I didn't know that first review was you XD. No problem about the half-done review, it made me feel fuzzy (as did the second).

The last two of the Main Four are finally here, and the pace is _really_ going to rush now! And actually, my brain seems to work better when it's not working, if that makes any sense? :P To other things, I'm really glad you liked the chapter and the new two characters, as well as the description about the uniforms. I was a bit afraid with that last one, didn't know if it would become tiresome or unrecognizable. Also, yes, if you've found the Big M in there, it's because he is.

About the scene in the hallway, I've read it over again and I can see what you meant. I'm going to play a bit with it once I get next chapter ready, so as to not leave you all hanging next week, and see if I can clear it, though I can't promise anything... I'll let everybody know when I decide to change it. Thanks a lot for telling, I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.


	6. Healing Wounds

Will sips from his tea almost with boredom, waiting for his friend to get changed out of his flight uniform, probably take a shower too, and come to meet him.

He arrived at the _Nemesis_ just to find it in the middle of an alert, so he was forced to wait in the entrance until it had been taken care of and the soldier on desk duty came back to his post.

Seeing this wasn't the first time such a thing happened, the scientist simply smiled and nodded at the apologetic man, accepting his pass and his words and simply going to the mess hall instead of the recreation room.

He knows that soldiers, specially those that went to the field, need some time to get back to normal, and Steve, being Air Commander, Second in Command and vain, takes even longer.

But it's already been an hour since he was let in.

There have been other times like this one, where the officers have to go through a longer debriefing, or even an impromptu meeting—since if there had been an appointed one someone would have already told him—so he's not really worried.

Truth is, he's more annoyed than anything else, because the coffee machine is broken and he has to make do with tea, and drinking tea because that's the only thing available isn't exactly a good reason to do so.

And thus, Will is glaring down his half-downed mug when the door opens.

He looks up almost half-heartedly, but does a double-take when he realizes it's Sanders approaching him.

He looks around trying to see if there's Dexter or someone else the Third in Command could be here to meet, but finds no one.

His chest clenches when the quiet man stops right in front of him and, with shaking hands, he lets the mug down and stands up.

"Did something happen?" He asks tremulously, mind flashing back to that first time, years ago, when a soldier had approached him after an attack, only to tell him that the Air Commander was in a meeting and wouldn't get out before visiting hours were over.

It had been some of the most horrifying twenty seconds of his life.

But it isn't a common soldier now. It's the Third in Command himself, and a known—to him, at least—friend of Steve's.

"Reeds was injured in the last attack."

And the world vanishes under his feet.

"What happened? How bad is it? Will he be alright?" He asks quickly, forcing himself to stop before he starts babbling.

"They were ambushed. He's in surgery right now, but the doctor was positive he would survive and recover. Known injuries include a broken arm, leg and unknown number of ribs. He also has suffered second degree burns on his head, and smoke poisoning."

Will sits down heavily, unseeing eyes drifting to the floor as his shaking hands curl around each other on his lap.

"But he will be alright?" He asks in a whisper, too stunned to look at the other man.

"Estimates are that he will make a full recovery, but since the extent of his injuries is unknown, it's not possible to say for sure at this time. And as for his mental state…" That last sentence gives the scientist enough strength to have his head snap up.

"What? Did he damage his brain? You said he had burns on his _head_…" Sanders shakes his head, and further words die in his lips.

"It is unknown if there is any sort of brain damage, but one of his wingmates perished when he went to his aid."

It takes almost a full minute for Will to understand those words.

When he does, he has to rest against the back of the chair to avoid falling down as his body goes limp with shock.

"Oh, God… That's…"

"Unfortunate and something hard to accept. Their third wingmate is already under medical care, and is to stay there for the rest of today and all of tomorrow. It was a… harsh loss for all those in the _Nemesis_." And Sanders' voice is softer, more human at those words. "It was… too sudden." He adds in almost a whisper, the scrapping of a chair being pulled back finally making the scientist look up at his companion. "Do you mind if I seat here?"

"Of course not." He answers softly, looking down at his previously unappealing mug of now cold tea.

"I'm going to get some myself. Do you want a refill?" The Third in Command asks, and he can just nod and hand over the cup.

The rest of his allowed hour as a visitor is spent in Sanders' silent but pleasant company.

Before they part, the Communications Officer promises to let him know as soon as Steve is cleared for visitors, even going as far as to assure him he'll get him a special pass to access Med Bay.

When he asks why, the Third in Command gives him a small smile and turns around.

"He's going to need you."

* * *

When Jazz wakes up it's to find himself in a really awkward situation.

He's in his bed, covered to the chin, and snuggling against a still sleeping Prowl's chest, the arms around his body holding him close to the other man.

It's not their position that's awkward, though.

Jazz twitches as a new shiver racks his body, trying to keep it in.

He needs to go to the bathroom _urgently_, but he doesn't want to wake the Commander-in-Chief, and neither does he want the other man waking up when he's gone.

He doesn't have much more time to choose, though, so he pushes a bit away from his boss to be able to see his face.

He looks peaceful when asleep, eyes closed, no sign of the usual tension or seriousness, auburn hair slightly tousled.

His heart beats painfully at the sight.

His boss, the Enforcer Commander-in-Chief and Second in Command of Civilian Government, one of the strongest people he knows… and here he is, hanging onto Jazz and hiding under the covers with him, like a toddler who woke up from a nightmare, after suffering the worst breakdown the Head of Special Operations has ever know about.

He hesitates to say they got something positive from it, because he's not sure remembering the man's name is worth what he went through.

Which is why he's going to wake him up instead of prying the slack arms from his body and go away silently.

"Prowl. Hey, Prowler, you hear me?" He asks softly, reaching up to run the back of his fingers along the man's cheek soothingly. "Prowl?"

After a second, a small frown appears on the face in front of his before sleep-muddled green eyes blink open.

Jazz feels a pang of pain at the sight, something, the same something that has been growing stronger since his outing with the Cybertronian, telling him that sight is wrong.

He knows better than to disregard his instincts, but he also knows it's no use beating himself over something he can't change.

So, he pushes the pain away and gives his boss—his _friend—_his signature grin.

"Hey there, Commander. I've got to go to the bathroom, 'kay?" The other man gives him a small nod, still looking more asleep than awake, before burrowing his face in the pillow.

Jazz can't help the small amused snicker going through his lips before slowly taking the arms off him and sitting up.

A hand closes tightly around his wrist before he stands, so harshly that he lets out a pained hiss before looking down.

Unfocused eyes filled with terror look up at him, and all pain vanishes as he moves to kneel next to the Commander-in-Chief, softening his features to give him a soothing smile.

"It's alright, Prowler, it's alright. I'm here." He whispers, almost cooing, as he caresses the man's cheek with his free hand. "I'm safe, we're both safe. But I really need to go to the bathroom. I promise I'll be back before you know it, but I have to go for a moment." Slowly, green eyes seem to focus more on him, and the grip on his wrist loosens a bit. "You need to let go of me now. I'll come back, I promise. Someone has to keep an optic on you, after all." He adds, the last sentence in a joking tone, and he's finally released with a sigh from his boss, who lays down on the bed while covering his face with a hand. "Be back in a bit, alright Prowl?"

"'kay…" The other Enforcer answers with a raspy voice, and Jazz smiles wider as he gets off the bed and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him but not locking it.

Just in case.

His wrist bears the angry red imprints of the Commander-in-Chief's forceful grip, and pulls a bit with a small ache when he moves it, but there's nothing more to it than the simple strain.

So, his smile when he steps out of the bathroom is genuine for more than one reason, feeling lighter in an almost literal sense.

The bed's empty.

The world tilts sideways, and he stumbles before managing to rest an arm against a wall for balance.

"_Prowl_?!"

"In the kitchen."

He snaps his head in the direction of the voice so fast that he hears his vertebrae crack, but he doesn't care, rushing towards the kitchen of his small apartment, almost tripping on something he doesn't bother to look down and identify, before slamming to a stop against the door ledge.

Dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a gray hoodie, Prowl looks up from his inspection of the items in his cupboard, looking curious.

Letting out a relived long mouthful of air he hadn't know he was keeping in, Jazz lets himself rest limply against the wall, head bowing down with a sharp stab of pain from his neck.

"Are you alright?" The man asks, a hint of worry in his voice as he approaches.

"Just don't… scare me like that. _Ever_." He answers breathlessly, straightening when a hand falls on his shoulder.

"I apologize. I thought I could get breakfast going while you were in the bathroom, but I can't find anything in here." His boss answers with an annoyed huff, and he has to snort at that, walking inside.

"Please, this is _my_ place. Did you really expect things to be where normal people puts them?" He asks cheekily, earning himself a deadpanned look that soothes him more than amuses, but he snickers anyway. "Looking for coffee, I guess? Some toast, maybe?"

"Exactly. Although I'm going to leave it to you while I get to the bathroom." Green eyes roll in mock exasperation before the man walks out.

"Touch my toothbrush and have your coffee burnt, mech!" He shouts back as he gets to work, and he catches the sound of an amused snort before the door clicks softly.

He feels more comfortable than he can remember in that instant, talking like he _knows_ he should, with weird words and names rolling easily off his tongue and not being weird at all, bantering with an old friend over everyday things…

He realizes he's humming when he stops, whatever song it had been not leaving a trace of memory, as he stares at the blinking light of his phone signaling a message.

Curious, and with the coffee brewing and some toast already on the table, he grabs it and looks at the screen.

Text message, from an unknown source.

Frowning softly, he leaves the phone on the table and turns to the coffee without opening it.

"Smells good." He yelps in surprise, almost managing to spill the incredibly hot liquid all over his hands as he fills two mugs, before hastily putting the jar down before something else happens.

He glares over his shoulders at the too amused and slightly smug Commander-in-Chief leaning against the door ledge, dressed in _Jazz_'s clothes and wearing only a pair of socks for footwear, but not looking any less for it.

"Real funny, boss-bot." He deadpans, turning his attention back to the coffee as the man takes a seat on the table.

"You have a message." Is the answer as he puts a mug of pure black liquid in front of his friend and sits on the chair opposites him, nursing his own, with milk, and not giving the phone that has his boss' attention a single look as he takes a sip of the warm beverage.

"I know." He reaches for a piece of toast and the jam, spreading some on it, before handing the jar to the green-eyed man.

"Not going to see what it's about?"

"I don't know who it's from."

"Ah, I see."

They stay silent after that, enjoying their breakfast and the half-comfortable atmosphere, as the phone keeps blinking almost innocently between them.

When he finishes his second piece of toast, Jazz grabs it and brings the message up.

It is _not_ anything he could have been expecting.

His dumbfounded expression tells that easily enough, and, before he knows it, Prowl is standing behind him, leaning forward with a hand on his shoulder and the other guiding the phone to a better angle for him to see.

"This is Soundwave." He reads almost absentmindedly, voice so low that it's barely more than a whisper. "Starscream is in stasis-lock." Their breaths hitch at that, both at seeing it for the first time and hearing it said aloud.

It sounds far more real like that.

"I have a bad feeling." The Head of Spec Ops whispers after some seconds of silence, twisting in his seat to look up at the stunned Commander-in-Chief. "A _real_ bad feeling."

"So do I."

The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip.

* * *

Waiting on his seat next to the medical bed the Air Commander is sleeping on, Soundwave lets his mind go back to the events of the morning.

Mainly, him waking up dizzy to find his pillow stained with blood.

A quick touch revealed it had been a simple nosebleed.

He doubts it is anything _simple_.

He had another dream, one he couldn't remember, with the exception of some voices.

_"_—_another lost—"_

_"_—_capture more—"_

_"_—_tighten the grip—"_

Just the memory of them makes him shudder, fear and hate warring inside him.

There is something really wrong with the world, and it doesn't look like it will get better anytime soon.

He looks up when the door opens, grateful for his sunglasses as his doubt and uncertainty are hidden behind the dark glass.

Commander-in-Chief Ron Fowler and Head of Special Operations Jazz Smith from the Enforcers nod gratefully at the assistant medic that has taken them to the room, closing the door behind them and approaching the men already there.

The Communications Officer gets to his feet as soon as the door closes, brow furrowing in concern.

"What happened?"

The two men freeze, surprised, before turning somber.

A humorless smile appears on Fowler's face as he looks away, and Jazz quickly rests a supporting hand on his shoulder.

"I remember my name now." The Civilian Second whispers, and Soundwave quickly crosses the distance to rest one hand on his free shoulder.

"I was the one who remembered, actually, though…"

"I remembered… _something_… and it triggered Jazz's memory." The Commander-in-Chief adds when the Civilian Third falls silent.

"Take a seat." He tells them, accompanying them to the chair he's been occupying and the empty one next to it.

From his lying position on the bed, Reeds looks at them with a hint of worry in his dull eye, the other, along that side of his face, covered in bandages.

The hand at the end of the cast twitches when they sit down, Jazz never taking his hand off his higher up.

"I—" The voice cracks almost dangerously, and the Air Commander scowls softly before calming down. "**I remembered something too.**"

One look at the other two is all that's needed to know they can read lips, too.

"What?" Jazz asks in a barely audible whisper, as if the Military Second's silence influenced him.

"**Thundercracker.**"

Soundwave tenses with a sharp gasp, hands turning into tight fists.

The Civilian Third's eyes are wide open, while his commanding officer is frowning in thought.

"Thundercracker…" The Commander-in-Chief repeats, almost as if tasting the word, before his eyes widen in realization.

"Theodore Carter." The Head of Special Operations confirms with a wide smile, turning to the other two—

And losing his smile in an instant.

The Communications Officer doesn't see it, but he can hear it in their breathing, just as clear as the lonely tear sliding down Reeds' cheek.

"Carter—Thundercracker… fell." His voice is barely more than a whisper, and the only visible dark eye closes with a grimace of pain.

"**My fault… My fault…**"

Soundwave reaches for the Air Commander's uninjured hand, pressed tightly in a fist, and squeezes it reassuringly, cutting the soundless repetitive words.

"Oh…" Jazz whispers, and a quick look shows Fowler shaking softly as he pulls the Civilian Third into a protective embrace, haunted green eyes closing with a shiver when the other man returns the gesture with a hint of worry. "Oh…"

"When…" The Commander-in-Chief's voice is raspy and almost crackling, and, despite his mouth moving, only that single word gets out.

Reeds moves his head to the side, so that only the bandaged side of his face is visible.

"**When I lost him.**"

The Communications Officer shudders almost violently, realizing that this is the first time the Air Commander has been awake since the attack.

He shouldn't know Carter's gone.

Slowly, he lowers himself to sit on the bed's edge, shaking so badly that he starts to doubt his legs will be able to hold his weight for much longer.

Two hands land on his thigh, and he looks up at the two Civilian Officers with wide but unseeing eyes.

Questioning and worried gazes meet his, and another realization dawns on him.

Turned away as he is, only Soundwave has been able to read the Military Second's answer.

"He… figured it out when… when he fell. But…" He looks at his superior officer, who tugs his hand back to grab the clothing over his heart, shaking softly.

It isn't an answer, yet, somehow, it is.

He has been having enough feelings as of later to acknowledge the difference between a hunch and knowledge, proof-less as it may seem.

The stiffening of the other two men tells him they know, too.

"Prowl." Slowly, all eyes turn to the Civilian Second.

No one asks, no one acknowledges the word for what it is, because they all know now.

They all _remember_.

There's something really wrong with the world…

A warm hand finds his again, and Soundwave clenches it back.

If they're side by side, they can figure it out.

Together.

"'Till all are one."

Everyone tenses, hands reaching for their chests as their hearts, the pulsing warmth going even deeper than the beating mass of muscle, _sings_.

"'Till all are one." Four voices repeat in unison, and the warmth grows, coursing through their veins, traveling to their whole bodies…

And they promise without words, without even exchanging a glance, their resolve growing stronger, Prowl's doubt pushed away, Jazz's worry soothed, Starscream's grief diffused, Soundwave's fear crushed.

Because they have each other, even when they are not together, even when the day comes that they will be lost.

There's something really wrong with their world, but they _know_, and knowing is half the battle.

Knowing means they can plan and _act_.

And these four men are the _best_ at both.

When Soundwave looks up, he meets two pairs of blue eyes and a single red one, and _knows_ his sunglasses shine red.

A smirk equal parts determined and dangerous appears on his face at the same time it mirrors on the three others.

Someone knocks on the door, and they almost jump out their armor.

… Armor?

By the bewildered looks they exchange, Soundwave knows he's not the only one who thought that.

Jazz snickers as he leans back in his own chair while Prowl scowls and Starscream rolls his visible eye, as the Communications Officer shakes his head in amusement, getting to his feet and approaching the door.

If not for the years of practice, he would have stared dumbfounded when he sees who is on the other side.

Will Daryl gives him a sheepish smile, the nurse with him looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Commander Sanders. I didn't know you were there." She tells him with slight nervousness, but he turns to the tall man.

"I got a change of schedule, and I thought I could come see him, even if he's sleeping." The scientist explains softly, trying to look over his shoulder.

After a second, he hears footsteps at his back.

"A friend of our dear Air Commander?" Jazz asks when he gets to the door, giving the surprised civilian a lazy grin. "Hey, William Daryl! Fancy meeting you here."

"Uh, do I know you…"

"No. But _I_ know of you. Let him come in, Commander. We were about to leave anyway." The Head of Spec Ops adds, turning to the Communications Officer, as the Civilian Second approaches them, as cold and composed as always.

And then, judging by Daryl's paler face and his wide eyes, the scientist realizes just _who_ he has been talking to.

"Second in Command Fowler and Third in Command Smith." The man whispers, and Jazz's cheeriness vanishes, leaving him looking professional, in what he knows is an annoyed response.

If people refer to him by a name that's not his, he will behave as the person he isn't.

Soundwave blinks, but manages to keep his expression schooled. How does he know that?

"Thanks for the meeting, Commander Sanders." Prowl cuts through swiftly, shaking hands with the Communications Officer. "We will be in contact." And those green eyes tell him exactly how much and why they will keep in touch.

He agrees to both his words and the meaning behind them with a nod, the grip on the other hand softening in gratefulness.

When the two Civilian Officers go away, he gestures for the stunned scientist to step inside and, to the other man's curiosity, follows.

"Commander Sanders? Uh, why—?"

"Air Commander Reeds is unable to speak at the moment. Unless you are knowledgeable about lip reading, you will need a translator." He cuts, approaching the curious pilot watching them from the bed and taking a chair to himself.

Slower, but with relief lightening his step, Daryl follows.

"Steve. You're fine." He receives a deadpanned look for that, but the scientist just chuckles as he sits down. "Well, better. At least you're awake." The Air Commander rolls his eye before turning to Soundwave with a questioning look.

Ignoring the curious man with them, the Third in Command nods in answer, telling his superior officer that he was both the one to tell Daryl about the incident and the one who cleared him for a visit.

That single dark eye shines with gratefulness and annoyance, but the Communications Officer just arches an eyebrow dryly in answer.

With a huff, the Air Commander turns to his confused friend.

"Al_right_…" The scientist drawls after a moment, before sitting back more comfortably against his chair and starting on the latest experiment he's working on.

Soundwave has to keep a small smile in check during the whole hour the visit lasts, unable to look away from the curious and completely hooked Air Commander while they discuss science.

When Daryl leaves, Reeds asleep once more, the Communications Officer accompanies him to the exit.

"Thank you." He says softly as they get to the door, and the scientist stops in shock. "He needed that."

After a second, the taller man regains the ability to talk, his features softening in a sad smile.

"He did, didn't he? I can only imagine what he's going through… I'm glad I was able to see him. Thank you for the chance."

Soundwave shakes the gratefulness off and bids Daryl a safe journey back before returning to his duties, feeling lighter at the knowledge warming that spot deep within.

* * *

**AN:** Travelling time is good for writing, but not for the writer. So, now that I am finally at my place and have Internet, there you go. Chapter for you and bed for me, and (almost) everybody happy. I'm going to hurt so badly tomorrow...

It's come to my attention thanks to a certain review (you know who you are, thanks a lot!) that the subtle hint of world-building I dropped in chapter two was _too_ subtle. If you remember, it was explained that Cybertronian had no windows and the Black Beasts were blobs identifiable by scans. The reason for the first is that the atmosphere is polluted by the Black Plague, which is a black mist, ergo, zero visibility. The second is closely related with the first because the Black Beasts _brought_ the Black Plague, which is in a tar-like state that evaporates in contact with something of Earth's atmosphere (take your pick, I didn't dwell too much in this, but if I had to say something, I'd say water).

To the Black Beasts, being covered by the tar-like Black Plague would be like being soaked by water to humans.

And, due to being covered by the same substance that, essentially, makes up the Earth's atmosphere now, the Black Beasts' 'life-signature' is camouflaged. Thus, scans are able to detect their presence, but unable to do more because of circumstances.

That's why Jazz was sent out, to use the better scanners on the prototype Cybertronian to try and get more information about them.

Now that I know that part of world-building wasn't where it should, I've modified Chapter 2 to include a couple of lines to explain it better (I hope). I have yet to change Chapter 4's scene in the hallway, though. I'll let you all know when I get to it.

If you find anything else of the like, please do tell. I'll solve it as soon as possible.

**Angel Heart:** Thanks a lot for reviewing and I'm glad you got what I meant. I love your reviews, I'm always so worried about things, about if they will be understood, if they are too messy... but you always manage to understand them and _let me know_. I'm so relieved to know about these kind of things, they let me breath easier and keep writing.

Thundercracker... The only thing I can say is because it had to happen. But! Everything has a reason, even the least important detail. If it is there, more so if it is physically written instead of just implied, it has a reason to be.

**SeekerAngel:** You're welcome! I apologize for answering here instead of the AN of Chapter 5, but I didn't want to risk modifying last chapter if you had already read it. As to your inquiries, I'm glad you're curious, but you don't want me answering them just like that ;) All in due time. Also, did you get an account? 'Cause I had this Favourites Alert from someone who has the same name, and now I'm curious.


	7. One Step Forward, Three Steps Back

Walking is a pain, for more reasons than one, but he refuses the wheelchair.

Rather vehemently, at that.

Was he a lesser man, Shepherd's rant and glowering gaze would have convinced him to swallow his pride and accept it, but Steve Reeds, Air Commander and Second in Command of the _Nemesis_, is not a lesser man.

And Starscream yields to _no one_.

So, he spends two extra days in Med Bay before they get him a special knee-high boot for his broken leg so that he can walk, even if it is with an obvious limp.

They would have given him a crutch, too, but it isn't as if he can use it with his broken arm.

So, despite going slowly, he has regained mobility again.

Commander Storm still refuses to let him in a Cybertronian, at least until his arm has healed enough that he can get rid of the sling.

The plaster will still be annoying, but he will be able to maneuver around the cockpit without it hindering him.

Once his Tetrajet is repaired and he's proven himself in the simulator.

Oh, and the bandage _still_ covering his eye needs to go, too.

… At least he can talk again, albeit raspier and screechier than before. _Joy_.

"Air Commander!" He stops with a small sneer, barely managing to keep his anger down, before looking back at the owner of the voice.

He relaxes when he sees the Sanders siblings approach him, looking happy or annoyed in some degree, with the three dark-haired ones practically bouncing as they get to his side.

"At ease, kids. I'm off-duty." The twins scowl, but the other three smile even brighter, looking up at him with eyes glinting with awe and respect.

Talk about worshiping.

Well, the dark-haired siblings have all taken aerial training, while the twins have taken ground force's, so he guesses it's to be expected.

He _is_ the best flier, after all.

"How did your first outing go?" He asks, resuming his walk towards the mess hall to get something to eat.

He signed their permits the previous day, for a routine check of the sensors surrounding the Protectodome. Nothing dangerous, not usually, but an escort for the repair drones is needed when it comes to the sensors farther away.

Seeing as there has been no alarm, and the five of them are by his side, he's going to bet that it went alright.

Which means…

"It was _boring_!" The twins exclaim in unison, and he chuckles over the girl's rebuke.

"Routine checks are supposed to be." He answers, bearing their glares like they're nothing.

"It was _amazing_, sir." Buzz counters, bouncing a bit along Ralph. "The feeling of being airborne is _nothing_ like the simulator."

"Yes, it was _the best_." His sister agrees, with the youngest nodding enthusiastically.

"Being on a ground Cybertronian wasn't all that different."

"We want to pummel Black Beasts!"

"It will come." He tells the twins, who are still scowling, but now look more dejected than annoyed. "But for it to happen, you need to have experience on the field, and these routine checks will grant you that. Whatever you have heard, whatever you think you know from the simulator, the real deal is a lot harsher." He stops for a moment, his leg throbbing and his chest squeezing painfully.

_"__Got you!"_

He shivers, a hand grasping the cloth over his heart as his eyes close, his broken limbs burning at the memory of the impact.

_"__You're ours now."_

He hasn't told anyone, not even Sanders, because he doesn't really know the truth himself.

Was it his head playing tricks on him? Was it a result of the impact, of his desperation and pain as he tried to regain control of the Tetrajet?

It must have been, because there's no way he could have heard voices with his comm system fried.

And yet, he can still hear the _snap_ in that warmth deeper in his heart when Thundercracker was ripped away from him.

_"__Get away from my Trine Leader!"_

A small spot on his arm grows warmer, so, curious and confused, he looks down.

There's a hand on it.

A hand attached to a black-haired teenager girl, surrounded by more equally worried boys around her age, the smallest clutching one of the twins in almost fear.

"Commander Reeds?"

It takes him a blink to recognize his name. His _other_ name.

Another blink and a shake of his head, and he lets the hand over his heart fall to his side.

"Just tired, Lizzie. You don't have to worry." He tells them, suddenly feeling worn out, as he gives them a weak smile. "I'm going to get something to eat from the hall, and retire early."

"We're coming with you." The twins answer in unison, the other three nodding, and his smile grows a bit before he resumes his walk.

"Suit yourselves. You were telling me about your outing?"

They comply, walking perhaps a bit closer than before, as they start on their rambling and whining and excited tales.

When they get to the mess hall, they leave him on a table while they go get their food, and Ralph stays with him.

As soon as his siblings have turned away, the youngest starts to fidget nervously as he slips a bit closer.

"Something wrong?" The kid looks around subtly before moving to the point they're almost touching.

"John's sick." It sends a sharp jolt of pain down his broken limbs, but he manages to keep his body from tensing at the whisper. "Has bad nosebleeds at night." Big brown eyes look at him pleadingly, and he finds himself at a loss of words for a second.

"Has he told someone? The medics?" The teenager shakes his head softly, and he has to frown. "Is there something else?"

"Real _bad_ headaches. Was with us two days ago, went away quickly and wobbly. Said he had work, but…" He nods softly, looking down at the table and pondering the information. "Doesn't sleep much nor good." He gives the kid a quick look, and notices how he's rubbing under one of his eyes, as if sleepy.

Bags under the eyes. Hidden by those accursed sunglasses, most likely, but with Ralph being so small, the angle wouldn't be able to hide them completely.

He shivers softly, unable to suppress it.

First, Prowl remembers something that makes _Jazz_ act like a mother-hen. Now, Soundwave's suffering from lack of sleep and what sound like migraines.

And he himself was victim to one of those phenomena, when he first saw Sanders before the 'flu crisis', something that melted his chest and _literally_ burnt his throat.

What will be next? And will the Third in Command snap out of the most recent pain cycle?

He pushes the thoughts aside as the rest of the teenagers come back, handing them their trays, and his attention is turned once more to their chatting and the food.

He'll have to talk to the Communications Officer, even if—

He hunches into himself so sharply that he's surprised he hasn't slammed his forehead against the table.

Although he doubts he'd be able to feel it over the blazing pain in his chest and the high-pitched explosion in his brain, almost as if Thundercracker had released a sonic boom inside his cranium.

Both his hands are clutching his head, his throat strained and closed tight with a silent scream as he shakes harshly, eyes closed with enough strength to have him see splotches of light behind his eyelids.

Splotches of dark blue and white and a smaller purple one and a line of red fill his vision as—

_—__the scream grows louder and far more agonizing than any being can be responsible for before—_

—his broken leg slips as he skids around a corner, his plastered arm coming down to keep him upright as he almost falls, but that pain is _nothing_ in comparison to—

_—__what they are doing, they don't listen no matter how much he screams and begs and shakes—_

—his head, but the something warm trailing over his lips and down the sides of his neck doesn't stop falling, yet he doesn't care, it's just blood—

_—__covering the body, the floor, the tools, and the wailing and screaming never stop, just grow weaker, and he—_

—almost punches through the panel as he inputs his override code, the door whooshing open too slowly for his tastes, and _there—_

_—__unable to speak, not strong enough for anything, but he still manages to meet his optics—_

—and he sees the same tears of blood streaming down Soundwave's face as there are on his own, red dripping down his ears, and nose, but he manages to get up and—

_—__he grabs him and they slid to the floor, too weak to stay upright, but not defeated, never broken, even if—_

"—_there was nothing inside… but memories left abandoned… There was nowhere to hide__…_ _the ashes fell like snow… And the ground caved in… between where we were standing__… __and your voice was all I heard… that I get what I deserve—_"

Their voices break at the same time, just like they started talking in unison, and they know that the voice laughing in their minds is _not_ theirs.

Hate and pain and desperation flood them even as the darkness claims them.

* * *

Prowl is surprised and a bit embarrassed when Civilian Government Commander August Prime enters his office looking like he's expecting to be jumped by a Black Beast just by doing so.

Only a bit, though. He _won't_ apologize for protecting Jazz, but he has to admit he could have done it without trying to rip his superior officer to shreds, no matter if he was stopped.

"I'm sorry." The man tenses at his words, the door having just closed at his back. "About our last meeting. I could have handled it better."

"It's alright. You were—um, you were in pain. No one can blame you for being a bit, uh, explosive?"

He has to smile at that, and his nod is more than enough for the other to relax.

"To what do I owe this visit?" He asks, pushing the report he's reviewing to the side, and August's calm is quickly overwhelmed by worry.

"There was an… a… Ugh, to Hell with it all." He tenses at the uncharacteristic cursing as the taller man grimaces, looking away for a second before meeting his wide green eyes again. "Sanders and Reeds are in the Med Bay."

"They're burning with high fever again?" He asks, the surprise in his voice hiding his worry as he forces himself not to fidget.

The somber look on Prime's face, though, is enough to make him pale.

"Minor brain hemorrhaging." His breathing hitches in his throat and his hands, crossed over his desk, start to tremble.

"_What_?"

"Shepherd is kicking himself with Reeds', blaming himself for missing something, and he's been told Sanders was suffering from migraines, insomnia and sudden nosebleeds for some days, but… Storm's worried. It's the second time in the last half year his Second and Third are out of commission at the same time and… He wants Spec Ops to look over the situation, in case… just in case." His already wide eyes widen even more, and August nods in confirmation.

Both men look away for some seconds, processing the words said and those implied.

And then, Prowl nods and grabs his phone, silently grateful he put Jazz's number on speed dial as he puts it to his ear.

The Civilian Government Commander looks slightly surprised at the movement, but stays silent.

"_Hey there, Prowler!_"

"We have a situation." He cuts seriously, disregarding the nickname, and the other end of the line is silent for a couple of seconds in surprise.

"_Be there in five._"

The call has already been ended before he can even think of a response.

Since he wasn't about to answer, though, he just puts the phone back in place and crosses his hands over his desk.

"I'm going to need as much information as you can give me."

"Uh, of course." August nods, a bit stiff with worry and surprise.

For a second, for even less than that, Prowl thinks about telling Prime about the messed up records and their own tampered with memories.

But the instant is over barely after it began, and he stays silent.

There's nothing about Civilian Government Commander August Prime that pushes him to it, not even the deeply ingrained trust and friendship nurtured during their long years of working together.

Besides, he's not the most perceptive of the four of them when it comes to things that are but aren't as they should, so he'll leave the decision to Jazz.

"There's not much more I can tell you than Storm's suspicions. He was worried enough to keep it all to himself, to disclose it only with Spec Ops, just in case."

"He doesn't trust you?" He asks with a small frown, because Lester Storm is one of Prime's oldest friends, along Ryan Shepherd, after all.

"He doesn't trust there isn't someone watching me." The taller man answers, blue eyes icy, and Prowl twitches almost imperceptibly.

Isn't he trusted anymore?

"I'm worried about him too, Fowler. If someone is _really_ targeting his Second and Third, how long until they go for him? And how long until it costs us our Military?"

_That_ is a scary thought.

A nightmare that was too close to becoming real, in that horrifying Black Day, and that no one wishes to see repeated.

_How long?_

The door opens almost as soon as the knocking sounds, and the newcomer doesn't walk, doesn't saunter, doesn't skip inside.

He simply _is_.

There's no sign of his usual cheeriness, of that ever annoying cocky smirk or even more annoying innocent little smile, nor the levity he usually carries himself with.

The door closes at his back almost as if it had the consciousness to do so on its own, and the man doesn't move.

The fluidity of his every move is still there, but the elegance it usually gives him is now buried under something sharp, something _predatory_.

_This_ is not the Third in Command of the Civilian Government.

_This_ is not the Head of Special Operations.

_This_ is not Captain Smith.

_This_ is the scariest and last thing the most dangerous scum inside the Protectodome see.

_This_ is Jazz.

The visor-like blue-tinted glasses he is wearing only enhance that predatory air.

He is not surprised when he is _not surprised_ at the warmth growing from deep within himself.

_See you later, Jazzmeister. Welcome, Jazz the Weapon._

It takes only a second after the thought for Prowl to bury his face in his hands with a defeated groan while the Civilian Third smirks widely, taking off his glasses and plopping down in the empty seat with all his usual cheeriness.

They have been spending far too much time together, if _that_ thought has been the Second in Command's.

A hand taps his shoulder almost condescendingly, and he knows Jazz knows too what he had been thinking, as impossible as that sounds.

"Don't worry, boss, it won't kill you." The newcomer chirps happily, and Prowl simply swats his hand away before straightening, ignoring the soft snickers and Prime's dumbfounded and completely lost expression.

"That has yet to be proved." He deadpans, which makes Jazz's grin widen, before both straighten and turn serious. "Both Air Commander Reeds and Communications Officer Sanders are in the Medical Bay due to minor brain hemorrhaging. Nothing seems to point at both cases being related, but Supreme Commander Storm wants Special Operations on it, in case there's something, or someone, behind those incidents." He summarizes, looking at August, who confirms it with a nod, all business once more.

"Understood, Sir. I'll arrange a meeting with both CMO Shepherd and Commander Storm to get the details, and I'll report possible courses of action after that." Jazz answers, dark eyes somehow looking paler as he nods.

"Dismissed." Putting his glasses on again, the Third in Command saunters out of the room whistling a popular tune as if nothing had happened, leaving his superior officers to sit tensely in the office when the door closes. "He'll keep an eye on Storm too, don't worry." Prime nods, but doesn't look up at him.

"I guess we can just wait now… Will you…?"

"I'll keep you updated." He answers softly, and the Civilian Government Commander finally looks up, gratefulness in his eyes and smile.

"Thank you, old friend." He smiles back, but as soon as the door closes and he's left alone, it vanishes.

He has a really bad feeling that keeps growing the longer he thinks about the situation at hand.

A feeling originating not in his gut or in his brain, but in the deepest recesses of his _heart_.

He wants to know what is going on as much, or more, as the Supreme Commander and the Civilian Government Commander, but at the moment, those are not the questions he wants answered.

When did Sanders and Reeds start looking into the matter of missing officers?

When did they become Soundwave and Starscream, and how?

And how long until Jazz and himself become targets?

* * *

He doesn't need to look to open the door and lock it once he's inside.

He doesn't need sight, either, to know he's not alone in his apartment.

He just smiles.

And lets himself fall backwards.

As expected, he finds himself against a warm chest with arms around him, keeping him upright, as his head rests on a strong shoulder.

"That bad?"

"Nah. It's just—"

"—that it gets worse." He nods and simply stays where he is, feeling the pulse of a beating heart against his back and warm breaths caressing his neck and shoulder.

After a couple of minutes, he opens his eyes.

And almost flinches away.

Something must have showed, because Fowler releases him and steps back, though making sure he's standing on his own before doing so.

"Sorry. I can't… Can't seem to get used to your eyes." He whispers, not looking at the man at his back.

There's no answer, but none was expected.

"You should go rest." He feels more than hears the footsteps as his superior officer walks away, and he hunches into himself almost without thought.

"So should you." He says instead, putting his keys in his jacket's pocket before throwing it on the sofa, where the other is sitting. "Bedroom's that way."

"Jazz—"

"Wasn't a request." He cuts nonchalantly, but they both know it's not that simple.

"Was it really that bad?"

His hand stills just before touching the fridge.

What seems like an eternity later, he lets it fall with a shuddering sigh.

"No. There's an explanation, medical and logical, and everything's right. It's just… that things are _right_."

He can hear steps that time, so he whirls around with distress making his body quiver and clear on his face.

Green eyes look over him with worry and a darkness that is more telling than alarms blazing loudly.

"And the first time?"

Four simple words.

They're more than they need.

Jazz's mission is to find out if there's someone behind the SIC and TIC of the Military Force being once more in the Med Bay. He has found nothing pointing to it this time.

But there was one other occasion when something similar happened.

And despite there being a less solid medical explanation, he still _can't find anything_.

Or, to tell the truth, nothing he can write on a report.

Because deep in his chest, the warmth cloaking his heart becomes a chill every time he thinks about it, and he knows Prowl feels the exact same thing.

"It's related."

To the tampered with reports. To the non-existent officers. To their names not being _theirs_.

It's not a question.

Which means there's no answer.

"You still have to talk with them."

Yes, he knows, he doesn't need someone else to tell him… But that's the thing.

He _knows_.

"Always wanting more."

He speaks with a smile, but inside he's frowning.

He's not sure he can find more. Not this time.

"You need to rest."

He wants to fight the hand on his shoulder, lightly guiding him to his bedroom, but he doesn't.

He's not sure if it's because he doesn't really want it, or because he simply can't.

He feels more drained than ever before.

"It feels nothing like the Cybertronian."

Like being trapped outside the Protectodome, lost to the world and to the mercy of unmerciful variables.

This helplessness is far more pressing.

Prowl knows, so he doesn't do more than help him sit on his bed.

He takes off his shoes almost as in a trance, mind going over the facts he's put together once, twice, thrice, before he manages to throw away his jeans and shirt and crawl under the covers, curling in as small a ball as possible.

The mattress dips, the covers lift, and two warm arms press his back against a seemingly warmer chest.

He just turns around and rests his head under his companion's chin.

"Thanks."

The embrace only tightens, so he lets himself relax a bit.

They have their own apartments, they don't need to be physically together, and yet…

This is the third time Prowl has shared his bed since the 'breakdown incident', and he's been in the Commander-in-Chief's twice, always after tiresome days, without them needing to exchange even a word.

They were just there.

Like he knows Soundwave has been for Starscream, and the Air Commander was for him when—

He tenses at the new thought, and the body curled around his tightens its embrace.

"Think it was like it was for you."

The increased tension is an echo of the pain that brought a man to his knees crying like a heartbroken bondmate instead of a protective gesture, and he knows the other has understood—

Heartbroken bondmate.

It sounds contradictory, yet somehow accurate, and he feels warm inside.

There's something right in there, but he doesn't know _what_.

Yet, what matters now isn't terminology, so he lets it go.

"A memory?"

"I'm not sure."

And the embrace is broken as he pulls back to look into alien yet familiar green eyes.

"They said Reeds was in the mess hall when he suddenly curled up grabbing his head, as if in pain, before he shot out of the room. They found them slumped against each other in Sanders' quarters, bleeding from nose, ears and eyes, unconscious, and called the medics."

His frown is of worry, but it soothes a bit when he sees Prowl's calculating one.

"Could be… But that would mean… that Starscream knew about Soundwave…"

"Or that they were in the same situation."

They look into each other's eyes, a myriad of emotions flickering through them, none staying for too long.

"Is that even possible?"

"Should it not be?" He answers instead, and Prowl stiffens with eyes wide in what looks like an epiphany.

Because two people thinking the same—reliving the same—at the same time should be impossible, but so should brainwashing a whole Protectodome.

They need to stop thinking about _what is possible_, and start on _what has no reason not to be_.

Judging by the Commander-in-Chief's grimace, this is fodder for migraines.

So, he chuckles and snuggles close again, feeling the warmth and the beating heart and the body relax.

"Sleep now. War meeting tomorrow."

Something prickles at the back of his head, but he pushes it away. They both need rest, not more information to keep them up all night.

"Did you see them?"

But, after all, Prowl has always been an inquisitive guy.

"Yeah." They stay silent for a bit, and Jazz presses closer and feels the grip around him tighten protectively. "They… Call me crazy, but they… they weren't _all there_."

They both shudder at that.

"'Till all are one." He shivers a bit at the whispered words, but finds himself smiling before he can process the gesture.

Yes, things might not be… ideal, right now. But they are together, and he knows the two Military officers will pull through.

They're all too stubborn for their own good, the four of them.

"'Till all are one." He whispers back, and that's the last he knows.

* * *

He is dreaming.

In his dream, the world is orange.

In his dream, there are symbols that are words, and words that are symbols.

In his dream, computers talk the same languages as people.

In his dream, he cares.

For the towering ones and the small ones, for those his size and those that run underfoot.

For the white and the black, for the yellow and the red, for any and all of the spectrum.

For the fliers and the swimmers, for the runners and the watchers, for the listeners and the talkers.

For the young and the old, for the ancient and the newborn.

For the naive and the bitter, for the happy and the sad, for the harmless and the dangerous.

For the present and the absent, for the now and the will be.

In his dream, he scolds and jokes, he orders and obeys, he laughs and mourns.

In his dream, he has family that are friends, and friends that are family.

In his dream, he is high and he is below, he is gigantic and he is dwarfish.

In his dream, he has a name that is not his own.

In his dream, he is called Prowl.

* * *

**AN:** Every time I think about or read this chapter, with all its plot twists, I can't help but think 'curveball'. Huh.

More from Linkin Park's _New Divide_ and some more bromance (not romance, won't write that, though I won't mind if you want to think of it that way).

New confusing scenes. Hope the last one doesn't become too 'repetitive', but there was no other way I could write it. I tried.

**Angel Heart:** Nice to read from you again, and a big hug and thank you for everything! I'm glad you're enjoying both the story and the 'word-play'. How can such a simple thing be that difficult will forever remain a mystery to me, but I'm happy it's working, as well as character interaction. Since this is a completely different situation, they have to be OOC, but I'm trying to keep them in character as much as possible, which is one of the biggest headaches with this story, so I'm glad I'm doing something right. And about reasons for doing things... oh, I have them... and the ZPBM has even more (cross fingers).


	8. Baby Steps

Soundwave hasn't even opened his eyes, but he already knows today is not going to be a good day.

Hints of his dream whisper to him, but grow fainter the longer he's awake.

By the time he realizes he's in Med Bay, he barely remembers anything from it.

Slowly, he gets to his feet and out of the bed, taking his time as his legs adjust to bearing his weight, before walking out of the room, brushing away the memories even when the sight of those well known, albeit white, walls try to bring details back.

A dream is a dream, and that's it.

But then he walks in front of another room, and even his breathing stops for a second.

Air Commander Steve Reeds is lying on the bed, half of his head bandaged and the visible eye closed.

And Third Wing Sky Grant is sitting on a chair, back to the door, his torso resting on the mattress next to his wingleader's stomach, with one arm cushioning his head and the other in front of him, clasping the limp tanned hand in front of his face.

Soft sobs cut through the silence every few seconds.

Soundwave's shoe-less feet make no noise as he takes a step forward to be able to lean on the doorway, gaze never leaving the pale thumb caressing darker skin almost lovingly.

"You were right."

The Communications Officer tenses sharply at the rough and broken voice, but doesn't move, doesn't make a sound.

He's not part of the scene in front of him.

He should go.

But his legs are already shaking and his head is throbbing softly, and he's not sure his body would react to the order to move.

"You were both right. I'm an idiot." Grant's shoulders shake with another sob at the end of the croaked words, and it takes him some seconds to stop shaking. "I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot… I'm nothing but a burden, a nuisance…" There's a hiccuped cry accompanied by another shudder, and the man presses himself closer to the bed.

His caressing thumb never stops its movement.

"I didn't even come to visit, and now… I don't—I don't know… I was scared." The voice is still rough, but when it drops to a whisper it sounds more like a little child than a grief-stricken adult. "Ted was gone, and you were so badly hurt—I didn't—I didn't want to…" The shoulders shake once more with a deep breath and another sob. "I didn't want to lose you too." Grant curls even closer to the bed, his messy long hair sticking up as he presses his head against the unconscious man's side. "I… I guess I thought that if—if I didn't see how hurt you were, if I acted like it was nothing… that it would be nothing." The laughter that follows is filled with so much pain and guilt that Soundwave shudders, something cold going down his back.

A small frown appears on the tanned face, but the eye remains closed.

"I'm the worst kind of idiot, am I not? The King of Idiots." The humor laced with those words is dark enough to send grown men running on the opposite direction, but his legs don't obey, just keep shaking. "And then, when they said you would make it… I used my work as—as an excuse. I had to do your job as Air Commander, but… it was just an excuse. I didn't—didn't want to see you…" The already low voice lowers even more as Grant burrows his face into the sheets. "Because if I saw you, and you were injured, it would mean that Ted had been lost, and I couldn't—" The sentence is broken by an almost violent shudder.

The thumb is no longer caressing the hand, clinging to it instead, and a dark eye slowly blinks open halfway.

"I… I convinced myself that you two were just—just down with a simple illness, some kind of flu or something, and that you would show up any hour like nothing had happened, to make fun of me, and nag me for the way I do the reports, and to let me drag you to watch a movie, and—" There's a wet sob that time, the shivers coursing through the black and purple-clad body not diminishing. "And I knew I was lying to myself, but I didn't want to stop, I didn't want to _see the truth_… I'm so sorry." The crying starts softly, but it takes only a second before it gains strength.

The half-bandaged head tilts a bit to the side and down, so that the uncovered eye can analyze the broken man clinging to the limp hand.

"I—I should have—should have been there… by your s-s-side… I would have kno-known if something was—was wrong… I-I-I'm an idiot, I'm useless!" The cry is muffled by the sheets the face is pressed into, but the pain echoes in Soundwave's chest with enough strength that it makes him instinctively reach out to grasp the clothing over his heart.

But his hands don't move, despite the urge to soothe the pain, to cover the vulnerable area.

He just stands there, leaning against the doorway, and watches as an arm covered by a cast reaches over the prone man's stomach to let the hand rest against the tangled mass of hair.

Grant falls silent with a jolt, stiffening but not moving.

The hand still clasped by the paler one moves so that it is holding the other instead, and this time the thumb caressing is tanned.

"You're not useless, Sky."

The voice is raspier than the Third Wing's, and almost weaker, but the words are a soothing rumble instead of a croak of disuse.

Grant starts to tremble again, but the face hidden against the sheets doesn't move, letting the hand on his head straighten the tangled locks.

"You could never be. And acting like an idiot most of the time doesn't make you one." There's a loud sob as the hunched body shudders harsher, but the caresses never stop. "I should have been by your side."

The black-clad body stiffens before the head rises enough so that wide brown eyes meet the single dark one, guilt and pain and sorrow as easily seen as the tears falling down Grant's unkempt stubble-covered cheeks.

"But you…"

"I'm—I'm wingleader." A flash of something darker than pain appears on the visible eye as the Air Commander stumbles with his words, but it's gone so quickly that he's sure Grant has missed it. "I should have taken care of you. Both of you."

The silence that fills the room is uncomfortable and sharp as blades, waiting just for the wrong move, the wrong word, to cut deeper than flesh.

"And I'm your wingmate. I'm the one supposed to have your back. Well, your side." The silence shatters with the weak words, but it's the soft chuckling that makes it vanish.

"You're slow enough to have my back too, Sky." The rasp is louder, more like the croaking of a little used voice, but a welcome sound nevertheless.

Grant snorts before composing himself enough to scowl.

"Keep thinking that, Stevie. And don't call me 'Sky'. My parents were really drunk the day they named me. Sky? Seriously? The sky's just… a myth. A fool's hope." The small amount of cheeriness that had managed to come up is smothered again, harshly.

The Air Commander doesn't stop his petting, and, after some time in silence, the somber expression on the Third Wing's face relaxes as the eyes close.

"A fool's hope as a fool's name. Guess it's fitting after all."

"It is." Brown eyes snap open as the body tenses, but the single one looking into them is as filled with warmth as those two words. "The sky's freedom, endless possibilities, a new surprise with every look. It brings rain and sun to nurse life, and hides an uncountable number of stars to fill hearts with wonder and heads with dreams. And it can be fierce and dangerous, when it unleashes blizzards and storms, only to let us see that what it wields is joy, when children play with the fallen snow and flowers grow where there were puddles. The sky is a world in and on itself. Just like you."

The silence that fills the room then is strangely charged, like the site of a lightning strike, heart beating wildly with both awe and joy at having been so close to such danger yet getting out alive and with the memory of the impossibly beautiful event.

Soft scratching makes Soundwave blink back to the physical world, where Grant has moved his chair to be able to lay his head on his wingleader's chest, dry tear-trails on his cheeks and eyes closed as he listens to the beating heart against his ear, a tanned hand still stroking his hair while the other arm surrounds his torso in an awkward embrace.

As strange as the image is, it is also heartwarming.

And yet, he can't seem to focus on it, something nagging at the back of his brain about missing something, about something not being right…

But despite him being in the Med Bay for a reason he can't remember, what _is_ wrong?

He's in the _Nemesis_, there's no Black Beast alarm on… Oh, and, last he remembers, all his paperwork was up to date, including the latest attack report as well as the draft for the next meeting with the Civilian Government—

Civilian Government.

Civilian Government of the _Ark_ Protectodome.

There's no sky under a Protectodome.

And yet, he can see, as clear as if it was happening before his very eyes, the dark sky being parted by a spear of light, the lightning bolt slamming into the ground where he'd been standing less than a second before, metal shining under the flash, a circle of sand turned glass—

He blinks the memory away and looks into a single red eye.

His knees wobble as memories assault him, of a name that isn't his, of people that aren't who they are, of sitting on his desk working on his reports before finding himself suddenly in the darkness, surrounded by screams of _agony—_

"Sanders!"

His legs fail him and the ground comes closer—

Something black and purple catches him and the ringing of clashing metal makes him wince.

Wait, _what_?

Opening eyes he doesn't remember closing, he looks up into Reeds' worried bandaged face, Grant nowhere to be seen—

But the metallic chair he'd been sitting on is lying on the ground, the metallic floor characteristic of the _Nemesis_.

The _carpet-covered metallic __floor_ of Med Bay.

The arms around his torso help him stand upright, and all thoughts fly away when Ryan Shepherd is almost literally in his face.

"Just what do you think you are doing, walking around on your own?! Who gave you permission to even get out of bed?! I'll tell you, no one! Stupid officers that can't stay still even if their life is on the line—go back to your room!"

He can feel Grant's body shaking with muffled laughter, since he's the one keeping him upright, and hear Reeds' chuckling even over the doctor's angered rambling and exaggerated gesturing, so he glares over the black-covered shoulder to the man on the bed.

Looking incredibly amused, the Air Commander smiles widely, waving a hand at him as his wingmate helps the Communications Officer back to his room, the white-haired man almost stomping in front of them.

With a resigned sigh, John Sanders steels himself for the lecture he's about to receive, while Soundwave goes over the facts once more.

Names that aren't theirs, manipulated records, missing officers no one has even met, and only four aware that things aren't as they should.

He can only shiver as he realizes that, up until he'd looked into Starscream's eye, that number had been down to three.

* * *

It's only when he sees a very familiar composition list for the third time that Will realizes he's been reading the same paragraph all the time.

With a defeated and a bit frustrated sigh, he pushes the datapad away and puts his elbows on the table to hide his face in his hands.

Another well-known line appears on the forefront of his brain, and he feels like growling.

_Request denied._

Two simple words, thirteen letters with one space and a dot.

And his world has vanished from under his feet.

Although, to tell the truth, it isn't what was written, but what _wasn't_, that has turned him into the wreck he's now.

First time in years that a requested meeting with Second in Command and Air Commander Steve Reeds has been denied, and there isn't even a _reason_.

He's had requests modified before, such as delaying them a couple hours or days, and has had to put up with Steve's rambling about how boring the meeting was and how much better used his time would have been if they'd let him go to his friend, but never before has a request been plainly denied.

He opens his eyes in an effort to vanish the words seemingly printed on the inside of his eyelids, but they don't go away, and neither does the anxiety and worry.

The table under his elbows is starting to look like a good spot to bang his forehead against with every passing second. Perhaps if he hits it hard enough, things will start to make _sense_.

And yet, he's a scientist. He knows banging his head against a hard surface won't help.

It doesn't make it any less tempting.

With a defeated groan, he lets himself bend over the table, his forehead thumping softly against it, and his arms falling over his head.

He doesn't even know if there was an attack, how is he supposed to know what has happened to his friend? _How_?!

"Will? You alright there?"

He lets out a soft sigh, guilt slowly making his way through his body, before he straightens again, running a hand through his short platinum hair.

"Yes, Jack. Just… lost in thought." He answers, collecting himself before looking up at his friend and fellow scientist.

Timothy Jackson, or Jack, as he prefers, is analyzing him almost as intently as a new sample, which doesn't bode well for the receiver of said look, since Jack's practical work tends to… have a shorter lifespan than it should, to put it mildly.

Not that he isn't a good man and great scientist, as well as one of the most important inventors of the century, but his enthusiasm tends to have him overlook small things, minor things… that make his inventions explode.

Ryan 'The Hatchet' Shepherd was stationed in the Civilian Government's Med Bay until Percy and Will joined Jack's team. The reason for the change was that, with the extra eyes looking over the inventions before the field tests, the number of explosions was greatly reduced, so the doctor followed the call of duty and relocated to where the next most dangerous injuries were received.

The fact that the Science Division of _Civilian Government_ has a higher risk than the Military Force still makes people laugh.

"Don't know, you didn't seem to be thinking a lot with that." The smaller man throws back, pointing at the discarded datapad, before stepping forward. "What's going on, man? Is it Reeds?"

Will stiffens, and knows that his reaction is more than enough answer.

None of them speak for some time, Jack patiently waiting for him to explain as he leans against the table with his blue-gray eyes lost somewhere as he draws mental blueprints while fiddling with his unruly mouse-brown mustache, and Will glaring at the table's surface as if the answers to all his questions would appear engraved on it any second.

The door opens but the sound of steps doesn't stop, which is more than enough to know who the newcomer is without having him stop on the taller man's other side, a pile of neatly stacked pads left on the table before a hand falls on his shoulder.

"Reeds again?"

Will sighs in tiredness, yet some of his fear and pain must have showed, because Jack's hand mirrors Percy's on his other shoulder.

Instead of answering, he looks up into their eyes.

Whatever calculations were running through the brown-haired scientist's mind are gone, only worry and the ever present curiosity in them.

Glasses reflect the light but don't hide Percival Thorn's black eyes, nor does his perfectly combed back black hair, but, even if they did, there wouldn't be much to see, his features schooled into a blank mask as they usually are as he awaits for an explanation to which react.

Looking down again at the table, Will clenches his hands into fists.

"My visiting request has been denied." He doesn't see it, but he feels his friends stiffening through the hands clenching his shoulders. "And I have no explanation as to why."

"That's… not good. How about a video-call?" Jack asks tentatively, and he shakes his head to let them know the answer's the same.

"Do you know if there have been any attacks lately?" Percy tries, sounding calmer, as he squeezes his shoulder. "Perhaps it isn't something as… harsh. It could be something minor, an illness maybe."

"I don't know. I know _nothing_. They won't tell." His voice is almost a whine, and he knows the other two are exchanging a look over his head.

"Maybe we could, uh, ask someone?" Both Percy and Will give Jack incredulous looks, but the man only grins. "Come on, the soldier on desk duty may know, right? Or we could ask Dexter, the guy seems to know everything."

Before he knows it, the platinum blond is on his feet and walking with long strides to the door.

"Of course! How could I have been so stupid!" He grumbles under his breath, the other two hurrying to stay at his sides.

"Easy, man! Where are you going?"

"Dexter! Dexter is Sanders' brother, and Sanders is Steve's friend. He _must known_ what's going on." He answers with a big smile as he turns a corner—

"Do you even know how to get to the Communications Center?"

—and stops right in his tracks, Jack slamming against his back with a muted 'oof'.

Sheepishly, he turns around to look at an amused yet exasperated Percy, who has stopped a bit behind them, arms crossed against his chest.

"Huh, do you?" He asks softly, and the brown-haired scientist snickers, a hand ruffling his already ruffled hair.

"He doesn't, but _I_ do. And, before you ask, I'll be glad to show you the way. Have a couple of things to ask of good ol' Dexter." Blue-gray eyes twinkle with amusement as he states that.

With a good luck wish and a wave from Percy, the other two scientists go on their way, far calmer than before, as the black-haired man returns to the lab.

"Didn't know you know Dexter." Jack comments curiously, and the taller man chuckles softly.

"I met him after the _Nemesis_' lock-down, when I went to visit Steve. He was there to see his brother and we kind of ended up talking for a bit."

"Meaning, the officers went to talk about their things and you ended up with only each other." He has to laugh at that, because it's fairly accurate, and Jack smiles widely, knowing he has nailed it.

"In a way, yes. We've met every now and then at the cafe downstairs since then, but I have to admit I hadn't thought of asking him about what's going on in the Military Force before you suggested it. How do _you_ know him, anyway?"

"_Everybody_ knows Dexter. He's a social butterfly, and the one behind the CGR."

"The Civilian Government Radio? The comm frequency that has music blasting all day?" He exclaims, incredulous, remembering all the times he's had to get Jack's attention via a tap on the shoulder because of him always wearing headphones when working. "And the Commander _lets him_?"

"It's good for morale. Besides, the music's good." The smaller scientist answers happily, and he can't help but shake his head at that. "How many times have I told you to give it a try?"

"And how many others have I said I work better if I can hear myself think?"

They both laugh at that, the ongoing joke having gained a new edge with that small discovery.

"Well, _you_ tell Dexter you're not following his CGR. Poor kid will be heartbroken. Anyway, here we are."

The door opens, and Will hasn't said anything yet but Dexter is already heartbroken, hunched over his workstation with big headphones hanging around his neck and his head in his hands in a mimicry of the taller man's previous position down at the lab.

The first thought his stunned mind is capable of producing is 'Not good'.

With a couple of big strides, he's kneeling next to the cherry-blond's chair, a big hand on his knee and worry almost oozing off of him.

Honey-brown eyes fill with pain when they meet his ice blue ones, and his heart clenches.

"They didn't tell you, did they?" The smaller man asks softly, even though there's not much of a question in his voice.

He can only shake his head in denial, and Dexter's eyes close.

"Minor brain hemorrhaging."

If there's something said after that, Will doesn't hear it.

"But—he was better—he'd been cleared—"

"No rest for the weary." That humorless smile tells him more than anything else, and he feels himself pale.

"Your brother too?" He whispers, and there's only a small nod as answer.

It's more than enough.

They stay silent for a bit, none of them knowing what to say, before Dexter almost jumps out of his seat with a startled look on his face.

Confused, they watch him put a hand on a pocket to withdraw a phone, hope filling his eyes as he presses a button while signaling for him and Jack to be quiet.

"Doctor Shepherd?" The cherry-blond man asks softly, and there's a huff from the other side of the line, the call put on speaker for what he knows now is his sake.

"_Just Shepherd, Dexter. I've got good news for you._"

"Is he alright?"

"_He's annoying, that's what he is. First thing he does when he wakes up is try to walk away. And they call _me_ workaholic!_" The Communications Officer can only laugh loudly in relief and happiness at those words, and Will feels himself smile at the sight.

"Have I told you how much I love you, Hatchet?"

"_And have I told you how much I hate that nickname?!_"

"Lots of times. Hey! How's Reeds?"

There's silence for a second, and both their smiles waver.

"_Since when are you interested in the Air Commander?_" Relief fills them at the curiosity in that question, no sign of anything that may foretell an answer they would not like.

"Since I have a friend of his here with me all worried 'cause he has no idea why his visiting request has been denied." Will blinks at that, surprised, but Dexter just winks in a way he knows is his 'Communications Officers know everything' explanation.

"_Should have known. He's fine too, awake and coherent, and getting better. And with that accursed Grant attached to him like a gum to a shoe. Those pilots are getting crazier every day. Would you believe me if I tell you he's been singing _for two hours straight_? And the Air Commander and that brother of yours just sit there and suggests songs!_" The three of them laugh loudly at that, Jack because it sounds amusing, and Will and Dexter because they _can_ imagine it. "_I swear it's all a plot to have me kick them out of Med Bay. Well, you tell them, I'm not letting them go until _I_ say so, even if it means I have to drug them into unconsciousness!_"

"How about suggesting songs back?" The smaller scientist pipes in, earning another rant that sends them all into laughter.

Sitting on the floor, unable to meet his friend or even talk with him, Will feels lighter and at ease, because he knows he will have the chance.

And because he's laughing too hard to even think about worrying.

* * *

Jazz is looking out of the window, but he doesn't see further than his faint reflection.

His black eyes are mocking him.

Just like Fowler's green ones do.

What is weighing him down, though, isn't colors, but words.

The words filling the reports on the desk, the words _Commander-in-Chief_ _Fowler_ of the nameplate on the outside of the door, the words he told when he came in this morning.

_"Boss__ called to say he had a bad migraine and wouldn't be coming today, so I'm in charge. Don't bring too many reports!"_

All cheeriness vanished as soon as he closed the door behind him.

Lies, all of them.

Even those that are true.

He didn't want to leave Prowl, not as he'd been when he woke up.

He looked so peaceful, so relaxed, as he slept… And yet, when he barged out of the bedroom he was almost as hysterical as that first morning after his breakdown, clinging to Jazz and bringing them both to their knees as he muttered desperately.

_"__My name, what is my name, please, what is my name, tell me my name—"_

_"__Prowl. Your name's Prowl."_

_"__My name—"_

_"__Prowl! It's Prowl, now calm down!"_

_"__… __Prowl?"_

_"__Yes, Prowl."_

_"__But…"_

_"__It's Ron Fowler too, but that is not—"_

_"__No, no, that's not my name, my name is—my name is—"_

_"__Prowl."_

_"__But they called me Prowl too…"_

_"__They?"_

_"__The others, the ones in… in the other place, in the _right_ place… But the name was wrong…"_

_"__What do you mean?"_

_"__The place felt _right_… but when they called me 'Prowl'… it felt _wrong_."_

The Commander-in-Chief managed to work himself into a migraine before breakfast was even ready, and, since they couldn't both stay away from the Enforcers, Jazz left him sleeping in his bed and came to work.

He hates himself more every second.

He shouldn't have left him alone.

He should have some idea about what this 'right' place is, and why the 'right' name is 'wrong'.

He should talk with Starscream and Soundwave, but that isn't an option.

He should find out if someone is after them, and why, despite his suspicions.

But how can he?

With a harsh huff, he rubs his forehead almost too forcefully, trying to push his growing headache away.

The Military Officers are out of commission, Prowl is suffering an identity crisis and Jazz has come to the end of the road with no way to continue in sight.

And a possible fifth to their team was lost before they even knew it. How many more have just vanished without them knowing, how many more are out there with no idea how wrong the world is?

What can they do for them?

He goes back to the chair and falls down on it, not caring that he's on one of the visitors' ones instead of the big and comfy-looking one behind the desk.

That's Prowl's chair. He's _not_ sitting in it.

He turns to the paperwork, trying to get some work done, but the words blur in front of his eyes the more he tries to make sense of them.

The knock on the door is almost a blessing, and he quickly grants permission to enter.

"Hey, Jazz! I'm bringing the—are you alright? You don't look alright." He has to smile despite himself, letting the hand massaging his temples fall to his side as he looks up at a worried-looking Drew Phillips.

"Nah, I'm fine. Just annoyed I have to do Fowler's job when I could be chatting with you guys." He answers easily, his smile turning to an exaggerated pout.

"Well, you can always bring the job outside and chat with us while working, you know." The boyish young man shots back, putting some more pads on the desk. "We miss you too, to say the truth. It's too quiet out there without you messing with the radio, or the comm system." They both chuckle at the memory, even the lecture they had to endure afterward.

"Yeah, that one was good. But, I can't do that when I'm the boss-man, now can I?"

"Sure can, just don't let them catch you." He lets out a bark of laughter at that, rising and reaching to clap the younger Enforcer on the back—

_"D__on't let them catch you."_

_"__Please, do you know who are you talking to?"_

—and finding his arm being clasped and a firm hold on his waist as he's slowly lowered to the chair he was occupying, an almost hysterical Phillips babbling his heart out as he tries to find out how he's feeling.

"—and you're really pale and that's bad—worse even, because your skin's so dark I shouldn't even know when you're pale, should I?—and I don't have the number of any doctor, but perhaps someone outside does, but I need to know if I need to call one instead of—"

"Drew." The younger man shuts up so fast that he can still hear words in his head—

But are they Phillips'?

"Jazz?" The meek, almost too soft to be heard voice brings him back, this time without echoes that may not be echoes, and he forces a reassuring smile on his face.

"I'm fine, kid. Just lack of sugar, I guess. Didn't eat as much as usual for breakfast." He answers easily, part true and part lie.

He hadn't eaten too much, yet he _knows_ that's not the reason for his blacking out.

But Drew doesn't need to know, so he just smiles and agrees to go with the kid to get something to eat, and follows and chats easily, though mostly listens to the almost non-stop babbling.

On the outside, he's looking over the assortment of pastries of the bakery while listening to the younger Enforcer's suggestions.

On the inside, he's trying to find out whose voice was it that he heard in the office.

And why the whole thing feels like 'famous last words'.

* * *

**AN:** Early update 'cause I've had a bad Friday, but I got a review to cheer me up.

As some of you may have noticed, I changed the Cover Image. The previous one was an ancient thing that was completely unrelated to the story. The new one, despite the clipped wings, is how I see the Tetrajets from this fic. It's based on Bay-verse Soundwave's satellite form (_Rise of the Fallen_) and a UAV Predator Drone, which, not-so-ironically, is Prime-verse Soundwave's alt mode. Cheers for the awesomeness of the Transformers franchise and Soundwave!

Here's the full image (minus spaces and brackets): ezimba (.com) / work / 140505C / ezimba15531451970601 . jpg

Also, I'm not sure if I'm satisfied with it, but this is supposed to be the world with the Black Plague, plus a Protectodome (base image from _The Dome_, the series): ezimba (.com) / work / 140510C / ezimba15531426240901 . png

GEEK ALERT: Tetrajet workings:

For those who have the question mark alight over their heads: Yes, Cybertronian, which includes Tetrajets, are black. The glowy blue circles on wings and tail are sensors, for the _Nemesis_ to keep them in sight, and are turned off the instant they enter the Protectodome, thus look black, and are consequently undistinguishable from the fuselage when the Tetrajet finally docks. Also, remember the Black Plague covers everything in a black tar-like substance, which means they aren't physically visible outside the Protectodome, so they aren't beacons for the Black Beasts.

As you can see, the wings are divided in two parts: the front ones are the real wings, while the back ones are cannons with rotatory capabilities. They are usually behind the wings when not in use to reduce the drag, as shown in the image, and are 'pointed forward' to shoot, so they look like they are attached to the underside of the wings, like missiles in our jets are, or on the upper part, depending on the pilot and the situation. And the handle-like thingies behind them are where the Protectodome and the docks 'grab' the Tetrajets, 'cause they have no landing gear.

As for the functionality of the crafts... The 'thrusters' aren't there per se, since the tail is/has the propulsion engines, but there aren't thrusters. This new engine allows for vertical take off (remember, no landing gear), as well as backwards flight, which isn't something widely used because, usually, there's no time to, nor enough ability, though it helps in stopping short to quickly change direction in an almost perfect 90º angle. To do so, as well as increase/decrease speed, the tailfins (the longer parts on the sides of the glowing orbs) 'fan open/closed' or move up/down/sideways, and not necessarily together.

The Tetrajet's maneuverability, including simple turns, are all the work of the wings. Those are attached to the body of the craft by a thin connection that works exactly like a joint, with the same rotating capabilities of our cranium in relation to the neck: it can bend and rotate in almost all directions and angles. That allows them to 'fold' when entering the Protectodome, so the Tetrajet doesn't occupy a lot of space when docked.

If you take a look at the 'front' of the wings, you'll see some 'fingers'. Those work like a bird's feathers, those smaller ones that may look like a thumb in some species, which means that they help the craft glide, mostly. And the flap-thingies framing the main body of the wing are really flaps, so no worries there.

END OF GEEK ALERT

I've got a couple more of these 'Geek Notes' on the next two, maybe three, chapters, though those are about Transformer anatomy, and there's one of which I just CAN'T take from the AN, so, sorry to those who have no interest on these things. You'll just have to scroll through them.

I've got a question: Do you know any 'Transformer Anatomy 101', or similar, fics? I think the idea of putting all these 'Geek Notes' together into my own is starting to become too much of a plot bunny to ignore (it has pleading bunny eyes now, and it's becoming difficult not to look into them), but I would like to make sure not to step on anyone's toes... Especially because my idea would be to make the fic, if I ended up making it, of the dynamic variety, meaning writing about situations where this things got explained or were explained by some of the characters (I remember a good Megaman X fic like that, but I don't know about any Transformers ones).

Well, thanks in advance, and let me know what you think about the 'Geek Notes'. Should I take the non-essential ones off, or do you not mind them?

**Angel Heart:** I think I'm going to start collecting your reviews :D About the first part of it... I can't say anything about it, because anything I say will be spoiler-ish. So, sorry for this, on to the second part: Prowl and Jazz. I've said it before and I know you know it, but, to me, they aren't a pairing in this story. BUT that isn't to say I mind if people want to take it as if they are, which brings me to thanking you once more for your opinion, as I'm glad it looks good from whatever angle the readers want to look at it :) Also, I share your HC when it comes to Prowl, so I'm glad it showed at the end.

On the second review: Keep thinking! :D I love when people let me know their thoughts, though I'm afraid I'm going to be able to reply to less as things progress further... I'm tying myself up in my own plot-lines XP

**Seeker Angel:** Same review-response as before, so I'm glad you don't mind this method :) No worries about the account, I just thought it a really strange coincidence to receive an anonymous review and a Favourite Alert from people with the same username XD Thanks for reviewing and reading! It's people like you who make me glad I posted this, and convince me to keep doing it.

And about the last review, I'm glad you like it, and here's some more to keep you entertained for one more week! Starscream's one of my favourite ones, too, but I'm not going to do him any favors because of that, mostly because he shares the spotlight with three more of my favorite characters XD About your question... I can take it two ways: whether Starscream and Soundwave were physically together during the 'memories' or whether they were together as in couple together. I think I know which one you mean, but since the chapter was like it was... If it is the first: Can't answer. If it is the second: I've said it before and I'm sure I'm going to have to say it again, but, though I don't mind readers thinking of the characters' relationship as a romantic one, it isn't, I'm not going to write romance, only bromance. So, take it as you want, I won't mind either way :)


	9. Broken

His head is ringing, but he still manages to recognize the man crouching on the other side of the room, where he has tossed him.

"Jazz?"

Black eyes are wide open, breathing harsh, body tense, but the Head of Special Operations doesn't try to attack him again.

Which is fortunate, because, despite the pain becoming duller, it's still sending sharp stabs at the back of his brain, where his head collided with the wall at the unexpected tackle as soon as he entered the apartment.

"Boss?" The voice is thin, filled with worry and pain and suspicion, and he has to frown at that.

And yet, at the lack of hostile gestures, he bends down carefully to retrieve the items that the attack has forced out of his arms.

"Yes. Now, would you calm down?" He answers, frowning a bit, and, slowly, the other man obeys.

Yet, the suspicion is still there, along a hint of fear.

Once he has recovered everything, he walks into the kitchen without another thought, letting the other tag along like a lost puppy who is not sure whether the man is or not his owner.

Something dark nags nastily in his chest at the thought.

"You're early." He feels Jazz tense at his back at his statement, putting everything on the table and forcing himself to stay calm.

The Head of Special Operations is a weapon. Show weakness, and it will be exploited. Show fear, and he'll be merciless.

He should be trusted, but he has already attacked him, so…

"What are you…"

"I'm making dinner." He answers as the still weak voice dies down, rummaging a bit through the cupboards for the items he needs.

"Sorry."

And there it is.

"What for?"

"I… didn't know who you were."

His hands get wet as the pot they're holding overfills when he doesn't close the faucet, but he can't move.

Jazz didn't—

In an act born more from desperation than the annoyance he should be feeling, he lets the pot fall in the sink and whirls around so fast that the Civilian Third can't escape the wet hands gripping his arms.

Startled and alarmed black eyes are too wide, too vulnerable, as he looks into them, the coldness in his chest increasing almost painfully.

"I'm Prowl, Jazz, I'm _Prowl_."

All fear and worry are replaced by relief and happiness, and he finds himself in an embrace almost as fast, returning the gesture earnestly.

"Thank Primus for that… You had me worried, mech." He chuckles along Jazz, releasing him after a second. "You managed to make sense of the mess from this morning, then?"

"I… not really." He answers sincerely, going to the sink to turn off the faucet. "I'm just as confused as before but… Even if when they called me Prowl it felt wrong, it doesn't when you do. Or Starscream and Soundwave. How are they, by the way?"

Jazz smiles before going out of the kitchen, the look in his eyes mocking him with his lack of answer, but telling enough so that he doesn't worry.

When he comes back, he's wearing a dry shirt and sweatpants, looking as cheerful and calm as usual.

"Got a call from Shepherd that they're both up and about, but that he's keeping them a couple more days just in case. None of them remember what happened, but he says it's to be expected and not to worry about it." He sits down in front of the Civilian Third once he has everything going, handing him a can of soda while nursing his own.

"That's good. Have you talked with them?"

"Are you kidding? I was busy enough making sure you don't have a reason to chew me out when you get to your office tomorrow." He snorts softly at that, smirking, but turns serious when Jazz's gaze grows distant and his own cheeriness vanishes.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm… not sure." His voice is small and slightly scared once more, so he reaches over the table to clasp a hand reassuringly. "I mean, everything's alright now. But… I got dizzy back at Headquarters." A chill runs down his spine at the darkness in his fellow Enforcer's black eyes, and he squeezes the hand to reassure them both of their presence. "Heard… someone saying something, and myself answering… but there was only Phillips with me." Jazz looks away, gripping his hand and trembling softly. "Is this what you felt? What they felt?"

The silence that fills the room is ominous, and he can almost feel like something's analyzing them, studying them.

So, he stands up and goes to tend to dinner as if whatever they have been discussing is nothing.

Jazz just takes another gulp from his soda before starting to talk about his day.

The feeling of being observed doesn't vanish until late into the night, and, by then, they're too exhausted to do anything but curl closer and fall asleep.

* * *

When they are let out of Med Bay, Soundwave is assaulted by his children.

All five of them.

In a tackling hug that sends him into Grant and Reeds, and the lot of them to the ground.

At least, the only one shouting is Shepherd.

The Third Wing is laughing his ass off after the brief bout of panic before the Air Commander reassured him that he's fine.

Starscream laughs too, until the kids turn to him.

Then, the ones laughing are Grant and Soundwave, though the latter silently enough that only the smirk and the shaking of his shoulders give him away.

The little stunt keeps them in Med Bay for ten more minutes as Shepherd gives them a quick examination to make sure nothing has been jostled by the fall, or that the Air Commander's broken limbs have not received a bad hit, but, after a lecture from the CMO, they all walk away with smiles on their faces.

They spend the rest of the day in the rec room, despite Grant and the twins having to go away for their shifts, just chatting with the other three.

When Ralph goes away to get some work done, they decide it's late enough to go to their rooms and follow Shepherd's rest order—

And the proximity alarms go off.

Lizzie and Buzz run away with worry and slight excitement while the two officers make their way to the bridge.

Commander Storm receives them with a second of open surprise before pointing them to the side.

They're not cleared for duty yet, so they can just watch.

And worry, when two certain Tetrajets appear onscreen.

"You cleared him?!"

But he knows, as soon as the words exit his lips, that Starscream has _not_ cleared Ralph for active fighting.

The dreadful and uncomprehending expression on the Air Commander's face only becomes sharper when they see the twins' ID on two of the Cybertronian following the four Tetrajets already engaging the two aerial Black Beasts as five ground units approach.

"We can't let sentimentalism get in the way, Sanders!" Supreme Commander Storm shouts over his shoulder, giving him a silencing glare before returning to directing his troops.

His heart rate speeds up.

Sentimentalism.

How can it not be when his children, his little boys, are out there?

"They'll be fine." Starscream whispers, a hand curling around his own and squeezing, and he clings to it almost painfully, unable to look away from the screen.

Two of their own, one aerial and one grounder, have been lost when his breathing hitches in his throat.

One of the Point Heavy Black Beasts, the strongest and heaviest armored type they've registered to date, goes after Allan.

The voices echoing through the comm have been boasts and cheers as the number of enemies has gone down, but it all changes in an instant.

"_Damn it all, this one won't die!_" Allan shouts, a hint of desperation under the annoyance, as his Cybertronian slowly goes away from the approaching red dot. "_A bit of help?!_"

"_On it, bro!_"

And there Freddy is, rushing through the screen in sharp turns to avoid whatever obstacles his scans can detect, and Soundwave can't help but take a new breath, knowing from their simulator practice that together they can take down a Point Heavy—

"Sanders-F, back to your position!" Storm shouts, and a quick glance shows a Black Beast approaching the Protectodome from the area his child is supposed to be guarding.

"_But there's no one to help my brother!_"

"There will be if he does his job!" Three more Cybertronian exit the Protectodome, but they are still too far from both the incoming red dot and Allan, and the Point Heavy is closing in—

"_I'm going in, go back to your post!_" Grant orders, his Tetrajet turning after getting rid of the last Aerial.

"Incoming!"

And the deputy-Air Commander cuts his maneuver short as two Runners appear onscreen, approaching quickly, and Freddy is already turning away, and Allan—

Allan has managed to buy himself enough time that the reinforcements have arrived, and the approaching Black Beast that had gone through Freddy's post has already been dealt with.

Soundwave lets out a shaking breath, the grip he's been keeping on Starscream's hand loosening a bit and earning himself a comforting squeeze.

"_Hey, what the Hell is—_"

One of the Runners goes past Freddy, and his signal blinks out.

"_Frenzy_!" His chest is burning, his heart splits in two, arms are holding him back from throwing himself at the screen, and his legs are barely supporting his weight, but it doesn't matter, _nothing_ matters because _his child is gone_.

He doesn't know what's drowning his cries, the pain in the depths of his soul or the lack of air.

"_Brother?!_" Allan's terrified voice takes his attention away from the part of empty screen to where one blue dot is still trying to stay out of range of a red one, another blue blinking off as a second red joins the first. "_What happened to—Since when can Black Beasts do—?!_"

The Point Heavy creature stalking his son _moves_, too sudden and fast for a Point Heavy, and the blue dot is sent skidding away as they collide, its light flickering dangerously.

"Rumble!" His already abused chest heats higher, burning so hot that he's sure he should be ablaze, but the signal is still online. "_Rumble_!"

"_Dad—hurts, it—please I—_" He cries out again as the flickering intensifies, the blueprint next to his creation's ID more red than blue. "_—need help—_" The Point Heavy that had attacked him stops next to the damaged Cybertronian, and he can feel a surge of panic go through his body at both the sight and the sob through the comm. "_—sorry—Creator I'm scared—_"

The signal goes out.

His scream is silent as he falls to his knees, an emptiness so cold it burns searing his chest, his heart, his lungs, and he's going to die, the agony is too much—

"—need you, Soundwave. I'm here, I'm never leaving you—"

Starscream pulls him to his chest, enveloping him in warmth and anchoring him with the pulsing of his heart and the strength of his will and the sincere reassurances blanketing his mind gone half-mad by pain—

Fear stabs him and his head shots up to see Ralph's Tetrajet being pursued by an Aerial, and no, _not again, not my youngest—_

The red dot vanishes just before Grant's blue one shots through where it had been, and he takes in a deep breath that sounds a lot like a sob.

"_This is the last time you mess with the kids, you monsters! As long as I'm here no one's—_"

A new airborne Black Beast appears as the two remaining ground ones start to retreat, and immediately engages the Third Wing's.

Starscream, still embracing him, shudders almost violently, and he can hear his fear, his worry, and the same foreboding that's growing in him the longer he watches the dog fight.

The new Black Beast is returning all of Grant's moves, as if it knew them beforehand or could read his mind.

Following Storm's order, the deputy-Air Commander tries to fly back to the Cybertronian on the security perimeter—

And loses control as the Aerial slams into him.

The underbelly, housing the speed-boost technology, flashes red before the blue dot is _thrown back_ towards the two ground Black Beasts awaiting on the edge of their scans.

"Skywarp!" The Tetrajet blueprint turns red as the craft crashes, and the comm bursts with static for a couple of seconds as the Aerial approaches the fallen blue dot.

"_We have to help!_" Soundwave stiffens at Ralph's voice, his signal coming from behind the rest of unmoving Cybertronian, but, despite his words, he doesn't move.

The Tetrajet is damaged, but engines and wings are still operational, so Grant should be able to fly back to the Protectodome if they manage to distract the Black Beasts surrounding him—

A small message appears next to the blueprint, and all hope dies.

_Cockpit breach._

The seal is broken. Grant is lost to the Black Plague.

"_Screamer… TC says… take care…_"

The blue dot vanishes and, a couple of seconds later, the remaining Black Beasts go away.

When Ralph's signal disappears into the Protectodome, Soundwave gets hastily to his feet and rushes to the docks.

He doesn't know how, but he knows which of the docking spots is Ralph's so he goes to it without a second of doubt.

The wait stretches into eternity, with Starscream appearing at his side during it and pulling him close so that he's leaning against his side, his shaking going down to shivering.

And then, the wall parts to let a small, new model, Tetrajet in, and the arm around his shoulders is the only thing keeping him from rushing to the still closed cockpit.

A rush of steam later, he's running up a concrete ramp to engulf his youngest in a smothering hug as soon as the small teenager stumbles out.

His child, his baby, is crying against his chest, trembling arms around his back, but safe, unharmed and _here_.

He doesn't resist when Starscream guides them out of the docks slowly and pushes them into the Communications Officer's room, where Lizzie and Buzz are already waiting.

He hugs them as tightly as he's done his youngest, pulling them into the hold he still keeps around Ralph, and lets himself be guided to the bed.

Primus knows how long after that, his brain clears enough to realize he's sitting against the wall, with his daughter and his now-oldest son curled at his sides and his baby, still clad in his flight uniform, on his lap, all of them fast asleep and with tear-trails on their faces.

A small movement out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention and, slowly, he looks at the man hunched forward in his chair, the arm free of the cast supporting his bowed head.

Hair ruffled, shorter on one side than the other, and bandages nowhere to be seen, Second in Command Steve Reeds looks up with eyes darker than their natural color nor lack of light could account for.

Angry red burn scars cover half his face and surround an undamaged eyeball, not so much deforming his face as marking it, but they are not the most clearly seen injuries.

The broken heart and the emptiness in his gaze are.

He has to wonder, for just a second, if he looks like that.

A small smile appears on the tanned face, a hint of humor and reassurance in it, answering his unvoiced question.

His lips twitch, as if trying to return the gesture, but they can't do more than that.

Nevertheless, he knows the message has been received.

The Air Commander gives him an almost imperceptible nod, so he relaxes against the wall and loses himself to sleep.

Starscream will watch over them.

* * *

The _Nemesis_' meeting room is full before they even step through the door, despite there being only two people inside.

It feels ice cold, too.

Nevertheless, August follows Lester inside, Jazz and Fowler at his back.

The Military Second and Third, already there, look at him, and the coldness increases.

They look horrible.

Sanders is standing by his chair, at attention, but his skin is too pale, his hair not so neatly combed, his uniform wrinkled, the distance between him and the Air Commander not as big as usual, and, despite his straightened back, he looks smaller somehow, bent almost to the breaking point.

Even his sunglasses seem darker, not reflecting the light as they should.

Reeds is leaning against the wall, broken arm crossed against his chest as easily as the unharmed one. His hair is shorter, a bit tousled, and his stance is tense, seemingly ready to react to a threat the Civilian Government Commander can't detect. There are burn scars peppering one side of his face, miraculously not affecting mouth nor eye.

His eyes are blazing, yet so empty that he can feel himself falling into an endless inferno just by looking at them.

So, barely suppressing a shudder, he looks away.

His two officers have frozen on the threshold, unreadable eyes and blank expressions returning those of their Military counterparts.

Lester sits down, and it's the cue for the rest to do the same.

It seems to take the SICs and TICs a real effort to look away from each other.

August can't help but think he's missed something.

"You know why you are all here, or at least you should." The Civilian Government Commander shakes the feeling away as the meeting beings, Commander Storm looking both calm and murderous. "The Black Beasts new-found… _intelligence_, is a major threat, increasing with each loss. The Military is losing people, _fast_, which means a new recruitment campaign." Prime grimaces, knowing it will fall to him and his Government to take care of it in a non-alarming way, but nods when Lester looks at him. "We'll have to update training sessions, as well as work on new strategies and counterattack plans. The Science Divisions, both of them, will have to help in new Cybertronian development."

"Ours can take care of alloys and power sources, while yours looks after schematics and weaponry." Fowler answers this time, taking notes, and the other three around him nod in acceptance of the proposition.

"How long ago was a thorough maintenance of the Protectodome's outer shield run?" Jazz asks, looking at Sanders, who turns to his own datapad.

"Eleven months and three days from now." The Communications Officer answers after a couple of seconds of searching. "Current circumstances won't allow for another to be run."

"But it should be our priority as soon as our numbers grow." The Supreme Commander muses out loud, and his TIC starts writing.

"Meanwhile, we should run it on the inner shields and substructure. Maybe reinforce the outer from within?" Reeds is shaking his head even before August finishes his proposition.

"It can be done, but outside maintenance needs to be taken care of too. It will be for naught to reinforce the outer shield from the inside if the outside is weak enough to break. Or not necessarily that. A misaligned plate can let the Black Plague in without us even realizing it until it's too late. Inside reinforcements would do no good to assure the integrity of the seams."

Lester nods as the Civilian Second and Military Third write things down.

"Better take care of what can be done from the inside while training goes on. Once the Military is up to par we'll run outside maintenance."

"Can't we ask _Iacon_ for reinforcements to do that?" The Head of Special Operations leans a bit forward to look at the two highest officers, and the other three follow the gesture.

"_Iacon_ wouldn't agree." Prime answers with a small grimace.

"Maintenance of the Protectodome is a lengthy process, and, as we are now, it would be to ask too much. We could try to request two or three of their pilots to oversee the process, but not the manpower to guard it. Besides, there wouldn't be enough space in our docks to keep their Cybertronian as well as ours, and we can't just lend them those we have, for they will be needed by my troops." The Supreme Commander explains and, as expected, he sees Sanders take a couple of notes, more likely suggestions. "And I have a big enough favor to ask, to be adding more to it." Everybody looks up at Storm, surprised, but the man just waves them off. "We should prioritize the Stealth Units, too."

If the room had been icy when they came in, now it's positively frozen solid.

Lester ignores the change easily, or perhaps he's strong enough to keep going with barely a second lost in the oppressiveness filling the room.

One way or another, August wishes he could do the same.

This is too much like when he asked Fowler for Jazz's services after that nearly fatal first outing, and if he has to never be in such a situation in what remains of his lifetime, it will be too soon.

"We need more information about the Black Beasts, we need to know _how_ a Point Heavy managed to move quick as a Runner, and how an Aerial was able to throw a Tetrajet away." Both Military Second and Third tense painfully at those words, and their Civilian counterparts look at them with expressions so blank that Prime shivers at whatever he's missing. "They knew our tactics and how to disable us. I _don't_ want it happening a second time." The Military officers nod firmly, with almost too much determination. "And I'll need competent pilots." His gaze strays to Jazz, and the Civilian Government Commander knows what's going to happen just before it does.

Only, instead of having Fowler straighten in his seat with a non-negotiable 'no', the reaction those words get is three times the expected.

Meaning that not only is the Commander-in-Chief on his feet, but Sanders and Reeds too.

August yelps as he jumps in his seat.

Lester presses himself so hard against the back of his seat that the chair stands on two legs, keeping the balance thanks to the iron grip the Supreme Commander has on the table.

"Guys, take it easy, okay? I'm really flattered, but I'm a big boy." The three burning gazes drilling into Storm turn to Jazz, who is lounging on his chair with a relaxed smile, like he was at a bar instead of in a Protectodome Governance meeting with three raging officers. "And I'm Spec Ops. I can help look for candidates with your data." Slowly, and calmer, they sit down, and the two highest ranking officers relax almost against their will.

And then, Commander Storm snarls.

"There was something else I meant to discuss with you." His gaze is directed at the Civilian Third at that last word, despite all of Prime's instincts shouting that messing with the guy who flares the other three's protective instincts to their maximum isn't a good idea. "I'll contact _Iacon_ for an officers transfer, and I'll need you to oversee the operation." Which is part of Jazz's job as Third in Command, so the rest of the room relaxes.

A bit.

"Officers transfer?" Reeds repeats with confusion and a hint of dread, and Lester _glares_ at him.

"I'm requesting a competent enough officer as my new Air Commander."

August can almost _see_ the world tilting away from the tanned man.

"You're _demoting_ me?!" He has to wince at the shrill scream, but manages to refrain from covering his ears.

Who knew Steve Reeds had it in himself to raise his voice to such highs?

"I'm putting you on leave, _medical leave_. Both of you." And it is Sanders' turn to gape like a fish, tensing at the words that have his fellow officer trembling with searing rage. "Neither of you are fit for duty anymore, so you are to get out of the _Nemesis_ and come back only for your appointments with Shepherd. When his psych evaluations come clear, you'll be recalled, and not a second sooner. I'm also putting your brats on leave, same reasons, same conditions. Once this meeting is over, I suggest you go get your things, the official order will be by not too much later."

"But… where am I going to go?" Reeds voice is so small and pitiful that the Civilian Government Commander winces as if struck, the man's already empty dark eyes having lost their fire.

"Oh, how about with Sanders? Years of barely tolerating each other, and after ten days in quarantine you're best friends. So don't give me that pathetic excuse. Or, you could go to that scientist friend of yours. Use your brain!" Storm scowls, and the Air Commander seems about to snap, mood going from defeated and lost to defiant and raging faster than Prime can blink.

Sanders grabs his arm, and the Military Second deflates.

"If there isn't anything else…" None answer, so the Supreme Commander stands up. "Dismissed."

Faster than he would expect from a man with a broken leg, the two Military officers vanish through the door, with his own SIC and TIC closely following after giving him a nod.

The silence that falls on the room is almost ominous, like Storm's fists starting to shake at his sides.

And then, August understands, and puts a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Do you really think they will be safer away from here?"

Lester doesn't answer, glaring at the table as if it had all the answers and refused to share them.

"I don't know. But whatever has been going on with them has affected them more than we first thought. Shepherd's last report about their psychical states… it was too normal to be normal. After this…"

"This?"

"Two of the Sanders kids were lost, and Grant with them."

The Civilian Government Commander can only squeeze the shoulder under his hand.

"Never lose hope."

"What use is hope when your times ticks out?"

He has no answer to that.

* * *

**AN:** Alright, here's the unavoidable Geek Note, though it's not necessary for you to read it. It's here to explain/justify my take on an aspect of Cybertronian anatomy/culture that has come up in this chapter.

GEEK ALERT: Cybertronian 'reproduction' and relationship between Cassette-carrier and Cassette:

First of all, it's fine if you don't agree with my thoughts on this, but please, take into account that this is what I've used to develop the story.

Second, most of the first part of the HC comes from, or has been influenced by, **Bibliotecaria.D**.

Alright, there we go. In my HC, the Cybertronian/Transformer anatomy doesn't include human-like reproductive organs. Newsparks are born/created in one of two ways: through Vector Sigma or from another spark.

The first method is easy enough: Bring a Newspark Protoform to Vector Sigma and let it infuse it with a spark.

The Newspark Protoform is a plain one, only basic structural armor and variable engine without additions of any kind, so that the mech can become whatever the spark dictates instead of the protoform. That means the Newspark Protoform has some mobile parts that, when the spark first pulses in the spark chamber, remodel as much as they can into the given specifications. Ergo, a Seeker or Doorwinger will have plates extending from their backs, but a Seeker's pedes will arrange into thrusters, while a Doorwinger will have shoulders and ankles modeled into wheels/anti-gravs.

The opposite, meaning using a fully modified protoform instead of a Newspark one, can also be done, but the resulting mech always suffers problems, be it of incompatibility with some parts, processor glitches, or even the extinction of the spark once in the protoform (Silverbolt's fear of heights, the Stunticons' general craziness... need I say more?).

Newspark Protoforms are modified, once the spark has stabilized in the frame, by medics, who add the armor befitting the newspark's frame-type and monitor them to make sure everything 'grows' as it should. Cybertronian have nanites that, during the first orns (Cybertronian days) after being activated, modify the protoform into the final stage, connecting wires, changing the basic multitask engine according to frame-type parameters, and integrating the armor.

As for the second method, it is basically the same: put a newspark in a Newspark Protoform, let it integrate, and make sure a medic keeps an optic on them.

The way to get that newspark, though, can be via a spark capable of splitting without suffering for it, leaving a smaller spark with enough coding to use as a guideline to develop (kind of like a child can have some of their parents' personality quirks, but will be their own person), or it can happen when two sparks exchange coding and enough energy that it essentially creates a new spark. Either way, the spark will stay into the 'carrier' Cybertronian's spark chamber for some orns, between ten and twelve, to stabilize and charge, so that it doesn't just extinguish or doesn't have enough energy when it's transferred to the Newspark Protoform.

Also, since there's no gender in Cybertronians, 'mech' and 'femme' are just frame-types, with absolutely no relevance in newspark creation (that's why Laserbeak, who is referred as 'he' in the cartoon, is 'Lizzie' here).

About Cassette-carriers and Cassettes: The term 'Cassette-carrier' is the designation of a Cybertronian whose frame is able to carry Cassettes in their alt modes, their Cassette mode. It also doubles its meaning, since a Cassette-carrier is the spark carrier of their Cassettes. All Cassette-carriers have strong enough sparks to be able to create newsparks by splitting them, and their systems are created to sustain their Cassettes, although a Cassette can also be created through the union of two sparks or by Vector Sigma.

A Cassette-carrier will only carry their own Cassettes, NEVER another Cybertronian's or Vector Sigma created, because a Cassette's systems are compatible only with their carrier's, and vice versa. After all, it would be _really disturbing_, not to mention obviously dangerous, to have a Cassette not their own nestled next to their spark chamber.

Which is the main reason why my HC is that Cassettes are their carrier's creations. I can't even imagine carrying someone like _Ravage_ in my arms all day long, with just some skin and easily broken bone between my heart and the unknown Cassette, which is how I see the insides of the chest compartment in relation to the spark chamber, even if said Cassette was in recharge. How easy would it be for a Cassette to unfold once in the chest compartment, and how much damage would it mean to the carrier? I _don't want to know_.

END GEEK ALERT

**Angel Heart:** I'm so happy you understand the tangled situation I'm in now... I'm starting to feel like a kitten who has played too roughly with a ball of yarn XD And I'm glad you like the 'outside main-plot' interaction. Will just didn't want to be left out, and Percy and Jack wanted some screentime since Chapter 3, the buggers... Plus, I don't like to leave characters out, more so if they are also part of the action. They are people, too, and since the situation affects them they need to grow. I like to think I'm doing a good enough job with that.

I'm happy the sky-talk got that mention from you, I have been juggling that one for quite some time, trying to put the contrast between the 'Protectodome life' and the 'Transformers life', and how it affects them, Seekers in particular in this case. So, this time I'm happy it was Starscream who made that cheesy speech XD

Well, little recaps/summaries need to happen for the characters' own mental health, since they're in a big enough mess to need that way of sorting their thoughts from time to time, but I'm glad it helps readers too. To tell you the truth, that hadn't been my intention XP

I like those two as a pairing too, but I'm just unable to write them as such :P Plus, I really didn't want that kind of thing in that story. I'm happy to know you don't it mind it, anyway :)

And I'll look over all of the already published chapters, just in case. Since you said it's the last ones that need to be taken a look at, I'll start with number seven and work backwards. Thanks for letting me know! Also, I haven't yet modified the hallway scene from Chapter 4, I doesn't want to work with me T.T

Thanks for everything and read from you next week!


	10. Life goes on

Will locks the door once inside the apartment, knowing they won't go anywhere in what remains of day.

He puts the keys on the table and doesn't look up from its surface.

He's hurting too much inside to face the other presence in the room.

Will always knew, even before that unlikely possibility came to pass.

Broken relationships are broken, no matter how much they are mended.

And yet, finding out that Steve has been forced into medical leave from not the man, but Sanders—_Dexter_ Sanders—is far more painful than he could have expected.

He's all too aware of each frayed end, of every edge of the pieces so bent out of shape that they don't touch anymore.

He hates himself for it.

Not for the state of their relationship, because that is both their faults, and shouldering the weight alone would be stupid.

He hates himself for his weakness.

Because his pain is bad, but he hasn't managed to look Steve in the eye since Dexter and him went to pick up the officers at the _Nemesis_.

The surviving children of the older Sanders threw themselves at their uncle as soon as they spotted him, barely holding back tears.

And when they let him go, the brothers embraced so tightly that it seemed they were the only beings in the world.

With them both shaking and hiding their faces against the neck and shoulders of the other, it was impossible to determine who was the one sobbing softly.

They said their goodbyes, grabbed the bags with their clothes, and started to get away.

Minus the Military Communications Officer.

Instead of going to the door, he went to Steve, who'd been watching the meeting like one would a small child near sharpened knives, his own bag resting at his feet.

The TIC slowly lifted a hand towards the non-scarred side of the Air Commander's face, but let it fall before it made contact, earning absolutely no reaction from the other man.

And then, he lifted the opposite hand and rested it on the burn scars without an instant of hesitation.

In answer, Steve splayed a hand as wide open as it could be on Sanders' chest.

Without breaking their stare, the SIC leaned forward to press their foreheads together, his free hand mirroring the other man's against the paler face while the Communications Officer's unoccupied one came to rest, also spread wide, on a red-covered shoulder-blade.

Will could only thank whoever was responsible for the meeting to happen in a private room.

The scene in front of him looked incredibly intimate, soft yet sharp at the same time, as whole conversations happened between the Military men through an unbroken stare and a couple of touches.

They separated in unison and Sanders went away with his family without a second glance or even a sound.

When they were alone, he looked back at Steve.

He didn't see the vigilant man that had been in the room when they came in, nor any of his friend's many faces, but soul-less eyes staring at the empty spaces where two other bodies should have been.

The scientist hadn't met the Air Commander's gaze since.

But now, in his apartment and with a broken pilot staring at the wall, Will forces himself to act.

The first thing he notices when he approaches the smaller man is that Steve's gaze isn't lost, but fixed on the projector sitting on the drawers.

It's a simple picture projector that, despite being capable of storing great amounts of data, houses only one image.

An old one, depicting two young and eager scientists barely fresh from the Academy, the tallest on his knees with the other leaning on his shoulder like one would a table, but both smiling brightly.

It had been the smallest of things, a new design for a little piece of the water filters, something they modified twice before Steve left for the Military, but it had been their first accomplishment, the first time they received a commendation from the _Ark_'s Government.

A coworker took the picture after they got the message and, despite having a more proper and official-looking one with Sebastien Prime, Will has always preferred the one before them, hence its placement.

"I could barely stay upright, so badly were my knees shaking. That's why I was leaning on you."

Will smiles at the small revelation, gaze never straying from the picture.

"It took me five long minutes to get on a chair." He reminds with a chuckle, but the smaller man looks sadder at that.

The time Will takes to gather the courage to ask what is wrong, the Air Commander uses to retrieve his bag.

"Will you be alright?" That's not the question he was about to ask, but he's glad it is the one that gets past his lips.

The last thing he wants is to remind Steve of the reason why he's in his apartment instead of the _Nemesis_.

"My brothers were killed before my very eyes and I couldn't do a thing to help." The scientist winces at the almost nonchalant words, taking a step closer when his friend takes a pad out and sits down heavily on the sofa. "I was the wingleader, the Air Commander, the Second in Command… and I couldn't do _anything_."

The pad is switched on, and Will sees the data in it are pictures.

The first one is the same in the picture projector.

Slowly, Steve goes through the others, ones the taller man has too, since they are of their years as Civilian scientists.

And then, the Air Commander stops.

The picture onscreen shows three men, two of which the blond doesn't recognize, yet he knows them all the same.

It's been taken from up and at an angle, so only the heads are showing, half of the image hidden behind the black-clad arm holding the camera.

Steve is scowling, pressed between the other two, as the one furthest, with short black hair, is in the middle of rolling his eyes, and the one at the front, with messy long hair and mischievous brown eyes, smiles widely, a hand on the blue-clad man's shoulder pressing the three of them together.

"He didn't even know our names."

"Excuse me?" He asks automatically, too taken in by the picture and the eyes seemingly staring at him to realize what has been said.

"When I got accepted in Air Force they assigned me a Wing. Sanders was the one who did it. He took me to a small meeting room, where we were supposed to meet with my wingmates, and Carter was already there. We had just stepped inside when Grant showed up, pushed us together and took the picture. And _then_, he asked Sanders if we were his new wingmates." Will moves from the back of the sofa to sit next to his friend, a smile appearing on his lips when he sees the one on the darker face. "They knew about each other, since they had been in the Military before I got there, but they didn't _know_ each other. Grant called Ted 'Baxter'." They both laugh softly, and if Steve's voice is raspier, he doesn't say anything.

The next picture is an official one, the three men wearing their colorful uniforms and serious faces.

But that is not what surprises Will.

"Why are you there?" His finger hovers barely over the screen, hiding the red-clad torso of the man standing on the left. "I thought the wingleader was supposed to be in the middle."

"I had just joined Air Force and both my wingmates were far more experienced, why should I be wingleader? Yes, I was good, that was why we were put in the same Wing, an _Elite_ Wing, but I was barely more than a baby according to Military standards." A bit of the sadness in Steve's smile is swept away by amusement, but it lasts only for a couple of seconds before he sobers. "We were sent on a routine patrol, guarding the repair drones for the scanners, to get used to each other. And we were attacked. My first time outside the Protectodome, my very first outing… Carter's wing was nicked, his maneuverability shot, and the Black Beasts fell on him like flies on rotten meat. He panicked. Grant was lost without guidance, confused as we all were by the attack… I don't remember much. They say it's normal, the battle high, they call it. But there's something I remember. I took charge. I ordered Carter to fall back, I guided Grant and the other Tetrajets on the offensive while Commander Storm arranged the ground-bound Cybertronian on the defense. I don't really know what I said, I don't know if I ever will, but… whatever it was, the first thing Commander Storm told me when we came back was that, from then on, I would be the leader of my Wing… and the Air Commander."

The next picture shows the blue and black-clad men laughing raucously with glasses filled with a suspiciously purple-tinted liquid on their raised hands and reddened cheeks, the image tilted and a dark finger showing on a corner.

Steve smiles again.

"As soon as I got out of my flight uniform, Grant appeared in my room and dragged me to his. I had a half-downed glass of High Grade in my hand before I even knew what happened."

"High Grade?" He repeats, curious, and, to his confusion, the Air Commander stiffens almost defensively.

"Alcoholic drink. Never asked what it is made of." And now Will knows why Steve has reacted so, because drinking is something the scientist frowns upon.

This time, though, he laughs.

A drunken Steve is something seldom seen, but always amusing. Even if it's just imagined.

"Before you even knew what happened? Do you expect me to believe that?" He snickers, receiving a dark glare that is an embarrassed and amused response, and his heart soars at the slow return of liveliness to the dark gaze.

"Grant will get you dancing shirtless on top of a table of the mess hall at dinner time, and you'll only notice when you realize your glass is empty and look for a refill." He sputters at that, laughter mixing with incredulous words.

"Talking from experience?" He manages to say, and Steve scowls and blushes softly, which is more than enough answer for Will, who finds himself without air as he breaks down laughing again.

"Just wait until you meet him, he'll get you…" All laughter and embarrassment and cheeriness is smothered faster than a flame in an oxygen-less glass bell.

He doesn't need to look into his friend's eyes to know they're empty again.

The tanned hand trembles softly as it moves towards the pad, which displays a main view of all the pictures saved in it with a simple order.

The touch is feather-like, but strong enough for the device to recognize it.

The three men on the screen are smiling, one a soft curve of pale lips, another a blinding grin that flashes teeth. Short black hair not restrained by meticulous brushing mixes with darker brown slightly tousled, and longer strands that have escaped from a louse ponytail frame a stubble-covered pale face.

Tanned arms around paler shoulders bring the three together, heads resting against the middle man's darker temples with an ease and warmth born of familiarity.

Three pair of eyes look into the scientist's own, and he knows that despite there being no blood shared, he's watching a family portrait.

As he cradles his broken friend against his side, trembling hands not letting go of the pad and tear-filled eyes never leaving those he'll never see again, Will wonders.

Wonders how it happened, how three became one and one went to nothing.

Wonders if he will manage to recover his friend.

Wonders if Steve Reeds will ever come back.

* * *

"So…"

Jazz leans against the console and says nothing else. Dexter stops his typing nevertheless, giving him a curious look before resuming his work.

"So?"

There's some beeping from a machine, signaling a call the Communications Officer must answer, but it isn't the reason the Enforcer stays silent.

Speaking things out loud makes them seem real, and the real world is becoming more hurtful the more they find out about it being… not fake, but _wrong_.

And they keep losing people. How are they supposed to find anything out _and_ solve it if every time they make a breakthrough something happens?

There's a tap against his arm and he almost jumps out of his armor.

He blinks down at the curious and slightly confused cherry-blond man, his mouth moving but what comes out of it is nothing but gibberish—

"—fine, Jazz?"

"Huh, yeah, sure. Just… thinking."

_What happened?_

Is he losing his mind? Did it happen to Prowl before his breakdown at Enforcer Headquarters? Will he suffer one too? Or will he start suffering physical problems, like the Military Officers?

There's no tapping on his arm this time, but the silence is even more attention-catching.

Dexter's looking up at him with worry, and he realizes he must have been asked something.

"Ah, sorry. What were you saying?"

"I said, you were pretty deep in thought. What's going on?"

His smile doesn't waver, his relaxed stance doesn't tense, but he's cursing loudly inside his head.

"Nothing, man. Just all this mess with the Military and the change of officers. It's making my job more difficult than it should." The other man's smile is equal parts understanding and sad, so he sobers before voicing the question that was first on his mind. "How's your bro taking things?"

Dexter looks down at the controls, seemingly playing a bit with them as his sad smile thins and, finally, vanishes.

"Not good. Better than the first day, but still not good. I… I don't know if…" He bites his lower lip and looks away, and Jazz knows he's not going to finish that thought.

He doesn't blame him. Said out loud, fears become more real.

"Have you thought about bringing him here? Familiar place and routine, family, friends…" The cherry-blond man is giving him a stunned look that quickly morphs into a pensive one. "Not right away, you know, but I kind of think he'd feel better being with you, and since you have to be here… If you talk with Shepherd, I can clear you with the Commander." The look he receives is almost worshiping.

It's familiar. And eerie.

It's so familiar it's eerie.

Kind of like a deja vu thing, but with all his instinctive alarms going off.

There's something important there, in the worshiping look the smaller man bestows upon—

_Stop, hold it, hit the brakes._

_Smaller_ man? Dexter's his height, why does he think he's—?

He's sitting down. And Jazz's standing.

_Oh._

So, something important about smaller people looking up at him like one would a God.

Or a kid a high ranked Enforcer like himself.

_Rust._

He actually yelps and jumps when he feels something warm fall on his arm, earning himself a bemused look from his companion, whose hand is still up, when he manages to turn to him again.

"The Pit, man? Give a mech a warning!"

"… Say what?" And Dexter is now analyzing him with an intensity that would make Shepherd proud, which is _not_ a good thing.

"Just… stressed. Tired. Didn't sleep well last night—" He hasn't finished the sentence, but Jazz knows it's the wrong thing to say even before the cherry-blond man jumps upright with worry clearly seen on his freckled face.

_Tell the guy whose brother has suffered brain hemorrhaging because of migraines and insomnia that you're not sleeping. Really _clever_._

"Dex, Dex, Dex!" He has to swat his hands away when they reach for his shoulders and arms, easily changing the odds to be him the one holding the other man. "Easy! Just meant that I've been working a bit too late, what with getting things ready for those guys from _Iacon_."

There's another beep, and the Communications Officer forces himself to calm down.

"Alright. Alright. But if you start to—"

"Have real trouble or feel bad, I'll go see a medic, I promise." Dexter presses his lips into a thin line, but nods and puts his headphones on again, already fiddling with the controls.

The Head of Special Operations gives him his signature grin and turns around to leave the room, but a hand around his arm stops him after only a couple of steps.

"—clearing you for docking, stand by." A look from the cherry-blond is enough to make the Enforcer turn around to wait, and the hand goes away to join the other dancing on the controls. "All clear. Captain Smith will meet you at the docks."

"Who am I—"

"Aaron Blake."

And that's all Jazz needs to wave a hand and rush out the door.

He feels the same uncomfortableness and wrongness as he gets into his hover car as he's been feeling lately, though his thoughts are not on it.

Aaron Blake is back.

The Transports Officer, whose last location was the _Iacon_ Protectodome, and who was tasked with the safe delivery of the resources both Commanders Prime and Storm requested.

Material _and_ human resources.

As the Civilian Third in Command, it is his duty to organize transportation between Protectodomes, and as thus it has to be him who greets the new Air Commander.

He's not eager for that, but he won't shirk his duties, nor let Blake go to his quarters without having to deal with the Jazzmeister for a bit.

His grin widens when he reaches Civilian Dock 1 to find that the newcomers have yet to come out.

The Protectodome's outer shield is, as the name implies, a shield. Defense. The inner shield, on the other hand, is the structure, the base the Protectodome stands on, in a way. But between them…

The decontamination area is more than the name implies. It is, of course, where crafts coming from the outside are rid of the Black Plague that inevitably coats them, but it also serves to relocate them to their appointed docking areas.

The Protectodome stands over the city. The _whole_ city, and the surrounding farming lands. There's even a mountainous area, which is a city sector the ground of which hasn't been levered, keeping instead the hills of the pre-Black Beasts' geography.

A Protectodome, _any_ Protectodome, is so big it's easy to forget you're under one.

Also, they're circular.

And, since the Black Beasts can approach from any angle, they need to be able to deploy the Cybertronian from any spot of the outer shield to counter them.

The _Nemesis_ lies against the inner shield, as much part of it as the inside and the inner area, but it doesn't stretch to all of the inner shield's circumference.

It isn't needed.

The _Nemesis_ houses the Military Cybertronian's docks, but once inside the decontamination area, a complex system, the workings of which are completely unknown to Jazz, moves the crafts through the inner area to the point they exit the outer shield.

Which is one of the reasons Protectodome maintenance is so important. If a part of the lower outer shield, completely made of carefully sealed gates that allow entrance and exit to the Cybertronian, gets damaged, it could mean not only inability to access those gates, but contamination of the inner area too.

And that last one would mean death, to both those inside and outside the Protectodome.

Jazz shakes those dark thoughts off the instant he sees a well known purple and white-clad giant of a man walk out of the door behind which are the docks for Civilian Cybertronian.

"Aaron Blake! Fancy meeting you here!" He chirps happily, approaching the sandy-haired man, who snorts when he sees him.

"Jazz Smith. They still keep you around?"

"They can't live without me." That earns him a hearty clap on the shoulder that forces him to stumble a couple of steps, but his smile never wavers.

"Cheeky bastard!" Blake laughs, clapping him softer before stepping back. "What a mess with the Military, huh? Sebastien Prime was pissed to know Commander Storm had asked replacements for his Second, Third, Air Commander _and_ Communications Officer. I swear, you could hear the shouting from the docks." The Enforcer lets his smile widen with a chuckle despite the clenching of his heart.

"But did he send them?"

"Sure did. In fact, we wouldn't be here without them. Those accursed Black Beasts tried to get us on the way here, and Commander Reeds' presence was about the only thing that let us—"

"Stop right there! Commander _Reeds_?"

Aaron gives him a confused look before his face brightens with realization.

"You mean they didn't tell you who—?"

"Air Commander Shawn Reeds." Jazz turns around sharply, quickly finding the owner of the new voice. "Pleasure to make your acquittance."

His hair is cropped and dark brown, his skin is tanned, and his smirk is almost screaming his mightier-than-thou complex to the whole docks.

If it wasn't for the lack of burn scars, the glaringly bright yellow flight uniform and the incredibly pale blue eyes, Jazz would have sworn he was in front of Steve Reeds.

"Yes, that's him, the Air Commander _Iacon_ has sent. And that is the Military Communications Officer, Raleigh Sanders."

"_Sanders_?" He squeaks, gaze snapping to the young man he hasn't noticed until now despite being by _Reeds_'_—_he shudders mentally at the name—side.

He wears a black dressing uniform jacket and silver pants, with a black and silver bag slung over one shoulder.

His skin and cropped hair are black, his expression is as empty as one can be, and he wears yellow-tinted glasses that make his pale eyes seem golden.

He looks nothing like John Sanders… except, he _does_.

The calm and serious demeanor, the straight posture, the detached and completely professional air.

A blink, and he doesn't see them.

He sees Sanders and Reeds, but…

He doesn't see Raleigh and Shawn.

He sees John and Steve.

And realizes that those who wear those names aren't them anymore.

They are Soundwave and Starscream.

Or should be, if they hadn't been broken by circumstances.

Reeds and Blake are talking, and Sanders is observing them calmly.

Jazz starts to tremble.

Replacements. Almost _perfect_ replacements for the men they were before realizing the truth, those who were efficient Military Officers with only a professional relationship between themselves and the Civilian ones, and that didn't snoop around in files they had nothing to do with.

Replacements that go so far as to wear their names.

Almost the same personalities, looks that, despite being different, are theirs too, and those names…

As he smiles politely and guides them to the exit, explaining about the _Ark_ Protectodome with the same ease and professionalism he exhibits for every newcomer of high enough rank to merit his guidance, Jazz can't help but think, ponder this new development, and reach an unpleasant conclusion.

He needs to talk with Prowl, and with Soundwave and Starscream if they are still themselves.

Deep within himself, Jazz has the feeling the mystery about the missing officers has just been solved.

He just needs to piece it together before a new Captain Smith becomes the Head of Special Operations.

* * *

**AN:** Hint for the interpretation of the 'intimate' scene between Starscream and Soundwave: Imagine them as their Transformers selves and read it again.

More characters! Remember: Named character = Cannon character (one of them is from his _Dreamwave_ comics' self, but it's not needed to have read them, since he's practically cannon with all the fannon he's gotten... In fact, I didn't know he wasn't G1 cartoon cannon until I watched the cartoon! XP).

I know this was requested long ago, but I needed to get the other two Geek Notes first, and two in the same chapter seemed too much...

GEEK ALERT: Headcanon on sparks and bonds:

Sparks are masses of energy that are usually believed to come from Primus himself. Vector Sigma supports that theory, since it is said that Primus' body formed the planet Cybertron, and that his spark is what keeps it alive. Since Vector Sigma is a connection to Cybertron's own core, Primus' alleged spark, and is able to create newsparks, the belief that sparks are parts of Primus' own is common knowledge among Cybertronian.

Sparks sustain themselves by burning Energon, a highly-charged and highly-energetic substance usually found in crystalline form, and that is commonly liquified to allow its consumption. It can also be created artificially from other less concentrated energy sources, like sunlight or oil.

The spark consumes only the purest and most energetic Energon, called High Grade, while the rest of the frame runs on the less charged, and thus less corrosive, Mid and Low Grade.

Sparks are spherical bodies of energy arranged in different layers. At the very center of the spark is the laser core, plasma so highly concentrated that it's in constant fusion reaction (not _nuclear _fusion reaction, a different one possible because of Energon). The laser core is where the Energon is consumed, and it has a codependent relationship with the other layers of the spark, in that it radiates the energy and gravity that sustains them, but is kept together and stable by their presence.

Surrounding it is the intermediate layer, also known as the data storage, a liquified mix of plasma and electricity always in constant movement and that is responsible for the stability of the laser core with its exchanging of energy between it and the halo. It's also where the Cybertronian's self originates from, since it contains the coding that determines the frame-type, personality and even the primary color scheme, all of which is copied to the processor when the spark is transferred to the Newspark Protoform. It keeps coding from past spark-merges, sometimes for mere breems (Cybertronian minutes), others for vorns (Cybertronian years) or even for the rest of the Cybertronian's life. It's believed it's able to also store memories, but such a theory hasn't been confirmed. It is the part of the Cybertronian with one of the higher, if not the highest, ability to adapt.

The outer layer of the spark is known as the halo, and it is completely composed of electricity. It is responsible for the laser core's state as plasma, and for keeping it together. It regulates energy output, be it the pulses from the laser core or the signals from the personality part of the intermediate layer, by modulating the charge so that it doesn't fry the Cybertronian's circuits, but allowing it to be strong enough to reach its destination and register. It also evaporates the High Grade Energon fed into the spark chamber by specialized Energon lines, and carries the highly charged molecules into the spark so they can reach the laser core, where they are 'consumed'.

Despite the name, in a spark-merge, the only part of the spark that takes part is the halo, and it doesn't really merge, but mix with the other spark's, exchanging energy and coding sent from the intermediate layer and laser core. If the amount of energy is sufficient, a newspark may form, and it will be pulled into the spark chamber of the 'carrier' spark, the one with the highest levels of energy, anchored by the halo.

A bond is an energy connection between sparks. As thus, that enables some sort of communication between the bonded, as well of knowledge about physical status, location and similar. This means a bond's 'functionality' is restricted to a certain range, since, the bigger the distance between bonded, the harder it is for the sparks to maintain the energy flow. Due to them being energy connections, bonds are regulated, sustained and established by the halo.

There are different bonds, according to their nature. The main ones are:

Familial bonds: Between twins, creator-creation and carrier-creation. They are formed when the sparks separate/are created, and allow status reports, emotional exchange and knowledge of the bonded's location. They can be nurtured to allow communication, too, though that usually happens only between twins, who have a higher compatibility, meaning the energy that forms the bond is more easily exchanged, due to them being a single spark that split in two. The carrier-creation bond is stronger than the creator-creation one because of the maturation time.

Fraternal bonds: Between creations sharing one or both creators, or between unrelated Cybertronian. These bonds don't occur naturally, since the sparks haven't been in contact to form the energy bridge that grows into a bond. Instead, those happen with interaction between the will-be-bonded. These bonds form slowly and, usually, without knowledge of the bonded until reaching a certain stage of their 'development'. They allow knowledge of the bonded's location and a certain degree of emotional exchange, as well as feeling extreme physical reactions. As with all bonds, they can be nurtured to grow stronger and enable further knowledge of the bonded's status.

Mate bonds: Between Cybertronian who have undergone spark-merge. This type of bond allows full knowledge of the bonded's status, physical and psychical, as well as emotional exchange, location knowledge and communication. As the other types, they can be nurtured to better communication, which is barely more than acute emotional exchange at first. There's a myth about the deactivation of a Cybertronian with a mate bond leading to the bonded's deactivation. This extreme case happens only when the bond is extremely developed, to the point the spark can't sustain itself without the energy received through the bond, though it can happen that the bonded deactivates due to their frame being unable to endure the pain reflected through the bond, in cases when the mate's deactivation is painful.

Trine bonds are a special type of fraternal bonds, unique to the Seeker frame-type. They are three-way bonds with emotion-based communication capabilities between the three members of the Trine, a social group characteristic of the Seeker frame-type.

Bonds can occur consciously, in spark-merges, unconsciously, like the familiar bonds, since they are simply a consequence of the newspark's creation, or accidentally. Accidental bonds are fraternal bonds, but not all fraternal bonds are accidental.

An accidental bond is the one that isn't the result of spark-to-spark contact, like familiar and mate bonds are. Bonds are established when the sparks' frequencies are well-known, whether by extremely close proximity of the implicated Cybertronian, like would be the case of best friends who spend a lot of time together, or by correlations between the sparks, which is when they are similar enough in one or other way, be it because of sharing coding from the same creators, or by the intermediate layers' energy pulses, something referred to as the sparks 'calling' to each other.

Bonds established by 'calling' sparks are so varied that it is unknown exactly how they operate, or the reason of their formation. Examples range from a Cybertronian saving another's life to a usual customer and the shopkeeper.

Two Cybertronian can only have one bond between them, meaning that a fraternal bond will become a mate one if they spark-merge, instead of developing the mate bond while still keeping the fraternal one. A mate bond can't be turned into any other, but enough of its capabilities can be blocked to act like another type.

Regardless of type, all bonds begin with the ability to sense the bonded, which can be used to locate them, and grow to enable emotional exchange, knowledge of physical and, later, psychical status and, at last, real communication. This last one is wordless, but it is said to be able to become word-capable if the bond is strong enough.

All bonds can be nurtured by proximity to the bonded, but especially by use. Bonds can be blocked, either completely or partially, but keeping them 'open' is more than enough to allow them to sustain themselves and, slowly, strengthen. If, in addition to being unblocked, a bond is made use of, whether with something as simple as locating the bonded or something more complex, like emotional exchange, the bond's strength will exponentially grow.

The stronger a bond, the easier it is to sustain it, even during long times of inactivity, or even during blockage of it, and more, and more clearly, can be felt through it.

On the other hand, all bonds weaken with distance, but, most importantly, with disuse. In the same amount of time, a bond that has been blocked will weaken ten times more than a bond that has become inactive due to distance.

When a bond weakens to a certain point, it will simply vanish, no longer acknowledging the bonded's spark nor sending energy to it.

The number of bonds a Cybertronian can establish depends on the spark, but they will grow weaker with each new one the spark forms, to the point well cared for mate bonds could grow to be like the weakest fraternal bonds.

An easy way to avoid accumulation of large number of bonds is to block those unwanted, which will automatically redirect the energy flow to the active ones, and increase the blocked bond's weakening rate.

The type of bond two Cybertronian share is, in no way, a reflection of how they feel about each other, since bonds are categorized according to their formation. The state and strength of the bond is the real indicator of the relationship between bonded. This means that two Cybertronian who hate each other may share a mate bond from a previous spark-merge, most likely completely blocked and, depending on how long it's been since its creation, almost gone. On the other hand, two others who are deeply in love may be united by a fraternal bond if they haven't spark-merged, but said bond may be as strong, or even more, than a normal mate bond.

END GEEK ALERT

Holy... that was a long one...

**Angel Heart:** Double review again! Yay! XD Now, on to things... Keep trying, I've read at least one good story where Prowl and Jazz have a SIC-TIC relationship only. Though... Prowl wasn't one of the main characters... Well, kinda, since all of the Autobot officers were a bit of main characters... Well. It's possible. I believe in you! :D

I hurt my own heart too, I didn't mean to kill the three of them, but the bunny said otherwise... Why?! T.T But, yes, I have everything under control ;)

Lester... is a hard guy to write. Every time I think I have him figured out, and try to make him do something... Well, you know how _this_ character is. I can never get him to collaborate ¬¬ But hey, he writes himself well enough, so I'm going to let him do his thing... Even if it means kicking two of his officers out of the _Nemesis_. I have to work with that, you plot-killer! *waves fist*

It makes me happy to know people understand what I'm writing! :D I'm going to follow your advice and leave that scene alone. I'm going to go back to check for typos and misleading spots, and see what I can do once I get that far back. I'll let you all know how that goes.

That... the chart... Would you believe me if that made my eyes teary? *sniff* As for plot... Well, you tell me after this chapter ;)

Thanks for everything and take care! (And don't worry about clicking the review button before time, it makes me laugh XD)


	11. A Date with the Past

Prowl's worried.

So worried, in fact, that he's been dealing with migraines almost non-stop for three days.

And Jazz, his best friend, his accomplice, his other half in both Enforcers and Civilian Government, his main _support_, is the cause of that worry.

Well, the most important one.

A morning, almost midday, of four days before, the dark-skinned man came into his office to deliver some reports before going away to continue whatever he was doing.

Amidst the reports' files was a small one called 'Surprise Birthday Party'.

Prowl's alarms started blaring. Loudly.

As calm and professional as always, he looked it over before deleting it.

He couldn't get to work on the reports after that, but, fortunately, he had a meeting with Civilian Government Commander Prime, so he didn't catch unwanted attention.

Two simple sentences tilted his world.

It seems to happen far too often, lately.

_Party delayed until further notice. Don't use the key._

There is no birthday party, only a talked about meeting between them if they managed to get Starscream and Soundwave.

And the only key he has that isn't his is the one to Jazz's apartment.

Things didn't get better the following days, with them both busy with their jobs and no explanation forthcoming.

So, when Prowl gets into the elevator of the Civilian Government building and is told to hold it for someone to rush inside in the nick of time, he feels annoyed.

When Jazz looks up from his slightly breathless hunched position to meet his eyes, he feels lucky.

They're alone, and headed for the same floor, for they have a meeting to attend to.

"I was hoping to discuss something with you, if you have the time." Which they both have, now that the elevator has begun to move, but since the Head of Special Operations tried to keep things hidden, he won't be as reckless as to talk about them out loud. "I was wondering about the reason behind the party's delay." He adds after the other has calmed down and nodded, straightening.

"There was a problem with the invitations." The Third in Command answers swiftly, smile in place. "Some of the them got lost, and we decided to wait until things had straightened before proceeding. So keep the key well guarded, 'kay? We wouldn't want anyone finding the presents, would we?"

Prowl shudders inside, brain almost boiling as he processes the meaning behind the cheery and innocent words.

The 'party' is no party, but a meeting, so those 'invited' would be the two of them, Starscream and Soundwave. If the invitations were 'lost', it would mean that, what? The two Military officers are not themselves anymore? Or is it because of their replacements, those bearing their names?

Judging by the 'presents' under the lock the 'key' of which he has, he suspects the latter.

The key is to Jazz's apartment, one of the few places where they can talk about the… not-rightfulness of their world and themselves safely, which would be the 'presents'.

He knows now that his suspicions about the connection between the replacements and the missing officers is shared by the TIC.

Until they know whether the situation they're in, injuries included, has been brought on them because of their knowledge, it's better to lay low.

He doesn't like it, but Prowl can do nothing but agree, so he nods in acceptance.

The elevator doors open and he turns all his attention to the meeting they are going to, feeling an incoming migraine start to recede before fully forming.

And if he has to fight back a smile or Jazz's is a bit wider as they walk side by side down the corridor… well, that is for them to think about.

* * *

August lets out a tired sigh as the door closes behind his officers, Fowler and Allen's voices cut short by the metallic barrier as they discuss the finest details of Storm's recruitment campaign.

He lets a soft chuckle escape through his lips as he stands up, stretching, and surveys the now empty room.

His Second and his Security Officer are more than able to deal with the situation, though he pities the other three men if they can't get away soon enough.

Those two usually agree over most topics, but when they don't…

He chuckles again, a bit louder, and grabs his powered down pad.

Percival Thorn, his Science Officer, will have his own trouble with the emphasis put on the Cybertronian-related research, having to delegate Civilian investigations to some of the teams under his responsibility while keeping his own from another of Jackson's… _explosive_ discoveries, all the while coordinating with the Military scientists.

Aaron Blake, Transports Officer, is to stay in the _Ark_ to help in the Protectodome's maintenance, his experience with a Cybertronian also enabling him to be an instructor for the Military and, if circumstances become dire, a pilot. Meanwhile, though, he has to work out a schedule and the routes to safely deliver the supplies _Iacon_ is willing to send to aid in the task.

Jazz Smith, Third in Command, is to help both Blake and Allen in their tasks, but, as Head of Special Operations, he has his own to run. Confirmed rumors and investigations show a small group having gained enough strength to poise trouble to the _Ark_'s Governance and, God forbid it, the Protectodome's own safety, its structure and people, so he has to put an end to it.

The Civilian Commander shakes his head at that, wondering, like all the times such a situation has come up, how is it possible that there are people willing to doom them all because of their unwillingness to negotiate, to _talk_.

_"There'll always be idiots as long as we're here to watch over them. When we're not, there'll be _dead_ idiots."_

August smiles at the memory, letting, for the first time in years, the sadness and nostalgia come to the forefront of his mind.

It's been so long since then, so long since the last time he saw and heard one of his oldest and best friends, that he is over the loss, but the current circumstances are enough to bring the old hurt back.

Damon Hyde would have known what to do.

He'd still been quite indecisive back then, just promoted to Second in Command, when he first met his Military counterpart, an old veteran who was more than trigger-happy when it came to dealing with Black Beasts, and as straightforward with everything else.

The meeting didn't go all that well due to their personalities, but it only took a couple more and Ryan getting them all to a cafe for friendship to grow.

And grow it did.

In one of his lowest moments, when a fungi plague made them lose their crops and half of their stored supplies, riots exploding in various areas of the Protectodome before _Iacon_ could send extra provisions and resistant seeds, Damon brought him aside and told him that thing about idiots, stating that the happenings were the exact reason why they had a Government in the first place, and why he shouldn't give in to fear and despair.

He was dumbstruck for some minutes before it sank in.

After the crisis was averted, he brought the older man to a bar and emptied his wallet buying celebratory drinks.

They ended up sleeping in Ryan's apartment and suffering through what has to be the worst hangover in history while being incessantly lectured by the doctor, but it was worth it.

And then, the Black Day happened.

Lester told him, when reconstruction was well underway, that it occurred because Damon was the first to fall, and chaos reigned without him on the field.

The Supreme Commander is the orchestra's director, guiding the whole of the musicians to get the most exquisite music possible, but the Field Commander, who also happened to be the Second in Command with Hyde and Reeds, is the knowledge necessary to read the scores.

The soldiers can fight without either of them, but they need to know what to do and be coordinated, something the Field and Supreme Commanders, respectively, provide.

Lester did his best to fight back without his Second, which was why they survived that day, but the damage was already done.

The Hall of Records. Forty percent of their population. A fifth of the inner shield. Damon Hyde.

It wasn't until long after everything had returned to normal, all repairs of the Protectodome's shields finished, that he broke down crying in his apartment and finally mourned his lost friend.

The next day, he was back to work fresher than before, heeding the dead man's advice to '_don't push away your feelings but don't throw a fucking pity party on the job, kiddo_'.

"Commander Prime!"

Startled out of his memories, it takes August a second to recognize the beaming young man, barely more than a teenager, approaching with a steaming cup in his hands.

When he does, though, he smiles warmly.

"Jerry, it's nice to see you. How are you?"

Jerry Lee, his personal assistant, smiles even brighter as he falls in step with him, offering him the cup filled with a greenish brown liquid.

"I'm fine, sir. I got all that paperwork sorted for you, so you don't have to spend thirty minutes searching for something." They both chuckle at the answer, remembering very well that time when the boy couldn't make it to work due to sickness. "I thought you'd enjoy some tea after the meeting, so I came to meet you. Can I have your pad in exchange?"

Still chuckling softly, the man takes the cup and hands over the datapad, eyes twinkling as he finally realizes what the beverage is.

"Liquid Honey from the Little Bee." He comments, taking a sip and trying not to chuckle into his drink as the boy gives him an adorable pout.

Because of the younger man's social nature, eagerness and diligence in his job, the Civilian Government staff have taken to calling him Little Bee, something the blond and blue-eyed boy with a fondness for yellow doesn't like all that much, more for the 'little' than the nickname per se.

And Jerry's special 'relaxing and invigorating' tea, the recipe of which is a family heirloom, has been dubbed 'Liquid Honey', though not only because of the 'Little Bee' joke, but due to the great amount of honey needed to sooth its sharp bitter taste.

Despite his unamused reaction, though, everybody knows, from Jerry's own words, that the young man enjoys his nickname, so August doesn't really feel more than amusement and a hint of fatherly love at the young man's pouting face.

One day, he promises himself, he will find his other half and start a family.

One day.

"Uh, by the way…" Being pulled out of his thoughts for the second time by the younger man, August looks down, taking another sip before lowering the still almost full cup. "John Sanders and Steve Reeds are in the building, with Dexter Sanders and William Daryl, respectively." Jerry informs him, and before he can answer a thought comes up.

"With Dexter Sanders and William Daryl, you said?" The boy nods, looking curious, and the Civilian Commander smiles. "Would you like to meet them?" Surprise makes the blond trip over his own foot, but he recovers before he manages to fall.

"Seriously?" He has the feeling that if he brings Jerry to Thorn with that smile still on his face, the scientist will manage to invent a new power source just by looking at its radiance.

"Yes, of course. It would do us good to take a break, and I'm sure they'll enjoy meeting you." Or so he hopes, but, after all, that boy has the ability to make everyone smile, and that is something that will do the grief-stricken Military officers good.

"Awesome!"

The Civilian Commander chuckles, listening to Jerry's happy chirping and answering his questions as they approach the Communications Center, where, according to the young man, the Sanders brothers are.

When the door opens, he is not disappointed.

Dexter is attending a call while his older brother tinkers with some kind of motherboard on the seat next to his, but they both look up at the newcomers.

August fells relief at the sight of the Military Communications Officer, as groomed as usual and without more wrinkles on his clothes than sitting on a chair can account for, dark glasses shining under the light.

The cherry-blond waves at them to come inside before turning back to the screens and consoles, still talking into his headphones.

When they approach, the boy almost bouncing by his side, the older Sanders stands up, putting his task on the now unoccupied chair, and nods respectfully at him.

"Commander Sanders, it's nice to see you again."

"Likewise, Civilian Commander Prime."

"—contact you later." Dexter almost jumps out of his chair as soon as he finishes talking, taking off his headphones. "So, to what do we owe this visit, Sir?"

"I just wanted to come by to see how you were doing, and introduce Jerry to your brother, if he doesn't mind." He answers, smiling, as he pushes the boy forward softly.

"You're not missing much, Little Bee."

The Military Communications Officer tenses sharply as soon as the words leave the younger Sanders' mouth, looking at—or at least in the direction of—the youngest blond still fidgeting nervously.

Dexter moves so fast August doesn't have time to do more than frown in worry.

"Johnny? Bro, you alright?" He asks softly, a hand wrapped around an upper arm as the other clasps his older brother's own.

"Yes." The voice is barely more than a whisper, but it's still the same monotone the Civilian Government Commander is used to. "He's… young."

The cherry-blond looks at a slightly apprehensive Jerry with a small confused frown, but his eyes quickly widen in realization.

"Oh." Two beeps sound from the console, and the Communications Officer quickly turns to it, his usual smile coming back to his face with a hint of mischievousness. "Hey, come here, I'm gonna introduce you to the guys." He adds, tugging his brother so that he's by the chair with the motherboard before letting him go. "You two, come closer or it won't work." Confused and curious, August and the boy approach as Dexter fiddles with the console, his headphones back on but only one ear covered. "And we'll be on air… Now! Hello there, Civilian Government. I'm your host and beloved Communications Officer, Dexter Sanders, with a surprise from the Communications Center." Prime can't help the amused and fond smile as Jerry beams, both recognizing the speech as the usual in the CGR. "We've got some guests today, so be ready to welcome Jerry Lee—say hi, Little Bee—"

"Hi guys!" The young blond chirps as Dexter points to where the mics are on the console, the boy leaning towards them happily.

"—our dear Civilian Government Commander, August Prime—"

"Good day, everyone." He joins in at the gesture from the younger Sanders, Jerry snickering silently.

"—and, last but not least, my older bro, the Military Third in Command and Communications Officer, Johnny! Come on, Johnny, say hello."

The older Sanders' expression is impassive, arms crossed against his chest, in what clearly is a reproving look.

"My name is John, not Johnny." He deadpans, and August lets out a relieved sigh he didn't know he'd been holding in at his participation.

"But I'm your little bro, man, can't you cut me some slack?" The dirty-blond doesn't move. "Not even a little?" Nothing. "Aw… Well, I know you love me anyway."

"Hard to know why sometimes."

The other three laugh at the dry retort, quickly catching themselves.

"So, question time is on, people! Use your comms if you have anyth—and it looks like we have a call!" He crows, pushing a button the light over which is on. "From the Science Division, Lab 06. Three guesses on who it is, the options being Science Officer Percival Thorn, Mad Genius Tim Jackson or Gentle Giant Will Daryl! I'm betting on Jack, so… who's calling?"

Snickering is heard from the other side of the line.

"_I'm taking offense, Dexter, I'm not mad._" What is undoubtedly Jackson's voice answers after he calms down, and Jerry claps enthusiastically as he laughs. "_Though yeah, it's Jack. But! There's four of us down here! Uh, scratch that, there's only three of us now. Damn, that guy _can_ run._"

"Four? You have visitors in the Boom Boom Paradise?" August chokes on his laughter as the Military Communications Officer shakes his head, the Civilian one winking at them. "Well, I'm not surprised they ran away. Someone we know?"

"_Actually, all but Jerry up there know him. The rest of the building, I have no idea._"

"Whoa, someone the Civilian Government personnel don't know about but the Commander and the Communications Officer do? 'Fess up, Jack, who's that?"

John Sanders turns so quickly that the other three jump in surprise, startled.

"Reeds."

"_Yeah, that'd be him._" Jack answers the Military officer's single word, and the door he's looking at so intently opens.

There, standing in the threshold, is the Air Commander himself, his face almost as emotionless as the older Sanders', with the exception of the smoldering eyes scrutinizing the other three.

Slowly, he steps inside and the door closes automatically at his back.

"Sanders." He says simply, looking at his fellow Military officer, and August has the feeling, crazy as it is with the room being soundproof, that he's answering the Communications Officer previous greeting-like uttering of his surname.

"Uh, well, look at this! People, we have Military Second in Command and Air Commander Steve Reeds here with us too, so lets give him a warm welcome!" Dexter exclaims, managing to recover the first, smile already on place.

His older brother smirks as he looks at the cherry-blond and, to the Civilian Government Commander's befuddlement, he nods as if acknowledging an order before stepping up to the tanned man.

And then, he hooks a hand around the back of the darker neck and pushes their faces together, eyes closed.

There's a loud surprised squeak that he doesn't know if it's Jerry's or his at the sudden and unexpected—not kiss?

The officers' foreheads are pressed together, but their lips are nowhere close, their noses not touching either with the angle of their heads.

And yet, Sanders' hand is resting against Reeds' non-scarred cheek with a softness that is almost lovingly, and the Air Commander's hands are on the Communications Officer's upper arms, almost holding him _close_, but in fact _just holding him_.

Nevertheless, it's a very intimate and somehow private scene, and August doesn't know what to think.

A look at Dexter only leaves him with more questions, for the younger man is looking at the Military officers with a sort of sad and happy smile that he can't decipher.

When he turns back at the still embracing-yet-not men, they seem to barely have even breathed.

"Missed you." The Civilian Government Commander startles at the soft whisper spoken in unison by two different voices, one raspy and high pitched and the other lower and almost without inflection.

The Military officers straighten, their foreheads not touching anymore, but not letting go of the other.

Until Reeds frees one of Sanders' arms just to push the now empty hand over the blond's chest, open wide.

After a second, the Communications Officer pulls away his own from the Air Commander's face, just to lie it on top of the one over his heart and squeeze, putting his free hand on the scarred cheek and letting the thumb caress softly.

Reeds turns his head so that he can nuzzle into it, the hand still on Sanders' arm moving to rest against the side of his head, as the blond releases that on his chest to cover the tanned man's shoulder-blade with it, stepping so close that their chests are pressed together, as well as their foreheads.

August only notices he's blushing when Dexter elbows him in the ribs with a protective look he's only seen on older brothers' faces when their younger sisters go out on their first dates.

The comparison only makes him blush harder, to which the Civilian Communications Officer hisses almost menacingly.

"Would you just use the brain in your cranium and really _look_? They've been working together for years, and closely at that, and they've just lost people really close to them. _That_ is two people who are as close as siblings comforting each other after their losses, not whatever is going through _that_ brain of yours." The cherry-blond man growls softly, voice low so as to not be overheard by the Military officers, finishing his rebuke by pointing at his crotch.

When he looks again at the two men, August feels like slapping himself.

Sanders' shoulders are shaking barely noticeably, the hand on the Air Commander's back gripping the fabric tightly, as if to make sure he won't go anywhere, and the one over the burn scars faintly tracing over marked and unmarked skin, trying to convey not a message of undying love or whatever other cheesy or lustful thought, but of support, letting the tanned man know he doesn't care about appearances, but about the fact he's _alive_.

Reeds isn't shaking, but there's a glimmer of something on the corners of his eyes, moisture, like tears that he doesn't want spilled, the hand on the blond head supporting it and softly massaging the back, as if to ward off a headache, while the one on the Communications Officer's chest has moved to let the arm encircle the other man, helping him stand in case his shaking knees give up.

Ignoring Jack's voice asking something through the comm, the Civilian Government Commander finds himself putting an arm around Jerry's now shaking shoulders and pulling him close, feeling very _very_ sorry.

* * *

Prowl and Jazz were almost outside the Civilian Government building when a passing comment froze them in their steps.

Slowly, they turned around, listening, and got back into the elevator.

_"Military Third Sanders is in the building?"_

_"In the Communications Center with Dexter. Did you know they're brothers?"_

Jazz quickly took out his phone and synchronized the frequency of the CGR.

Soundwave's voice welcomed them, bickering with the other Sanders.

Stunned, the Enforcers looked at each other, Jackson's words slipping past them in their surprise and silent conversation, until the Military Third cut through him with yet another known name.

_"Reeds."_

Dumbfounded, they looked at the mobile phone as Dexter spoke and silence fell on them, a strange yelping sound coming out of it, but nothing more.

They were finally on the Communications Center's floor when the younger Sanders' voice came up again, in a low growl, and they froze at the words.

A second later, hope started to grow in Jazz's chest, and he walked faster, Prowl mirroring his every step.

The door before them opened automatically, and they stopped once more.

A short look is enough to know the two men embracing in the middle of the room are Soundwave and Starscream, not John and Steve.

Jazz's hope soars at the same time his heart shatters.

Prowl is the first to move, slowly approaching them and resting a hand on the Communications Officer's shoulder when he looks up, untangling from the embrace bit by bit, though not so reluctantly once he has the Civilian Second's support.

The Head of Spec Ops stops by his immediate superior's side, but his gaze is fixed on Starscream's dark eyes, who lets his fellow Military officer go without wavering, moving to stand by the blond's side in a reflection of the Civilian Third.

He doesn't know if Dexter, Prime and young Jerry Lee understand what's going on, but Jazz's message is clear to those he sends it.

Prowl and Soundwave have lost people harshly, people that depended on them, one in the memory of something that didn't happen and another in a live experience that shouldn't have been real, so they will support each other, to be able to do so for others needing them.

Jazz and Starscream have lost people too, but they are bound to protect at the cost of their own lives if needed, and they won't fail that promise like they did before, one in a fuzzy and broken dream that feels like a memory and another in a too clear and repeating reality that feels like a nightmare, so they will watch over their self-proclaimed charges, and over the other one's.

And so, when they look at the other three men in the room, it may look like they're being polite by standing in a line to not block anyone's sight, but the four of them know that it isn't the truth, that what they are doing is presenting a united front, with the two in the middle keeping them together while those on the ends protect the others.

"_Hey, Dexter, do me a favor and open a line with Jazz for me, would you?_"

They all startle at the sudden voice coming from the console's speakers, the four of them tensing, as if readying for an attack, while the other three jump a bit.

A blink later, the Civilian Third recognizes Aaron Blake's voice.

Which means, unless he has the mechanics of the comm systems wrong, that Jackson has cut his call and Blake's has been patched through because of being the first, or the only one, in the queue.

And since the comm system is now connected with the CGR, everybody has heard the Transports Officer.

With an exaggerated sigh, Jazz steps forward as his partners—partners? Friends? Accomplices? What should he call them?—relax.

"Blake, you know you're on air, don't you?" He asks when he gets near the console, and the silence that answers him is more than enough. "Do I need to patch this to a private line?"

"_Nah, just come to Rec Room 5, Reeds is being an ass and—_"

"Wait, _Reeds_? No way, Commander Reeds is here, in the Communications Center." Jerry cuts in with a confused frown, and the Military officers exchange confused looks.

"_Commander __Reeds is down here, kid. How could he be—Oh, wait. You're talking about _Steve_ Reeds, aren't you? Geez, people, get up to date. The Air Commander's _Shawn_ Reeds now, not that old glory._"

Jazz can't help but snicker at that, chancing a glance at a fuming Starscream, who is being kept in place by an emotionless-looking yet clearly amused Soundwave, if his slightly cocked head is any indication, Prowl crossing his arms against his chest with a deadpanned look that would be a lecture about propriety and politeness if Blake was anywhere in sight.

"Yeah, whatever. I'll be down in five minutes, don't—"

"_Got another problem._" He doesn't sound extremely worried by it, but the Head of Spec Ops stops talking nevertheless. "_I seem to have lost the Air Commander. He was here with me, but now he's not. Oh, well, guess I don't need your help right now, then._" The Civilian Third can't help but roll his eyes at that.

_Typical Aaron Blake fashion._

"We'll talk later, then." He says simply before stepping away, the Transports Officer's farewell a simple click as he cuts the connection.

The door opens and Jazz tenses at the Military Second's blue-eyed doppelganger smirking at them from the threshold.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my dear older brother." The Enforcer quickly turns to a confused Starscream before taking his attention to Shawn Reeds once more.

"Do I know you?" The dark-eyed tanned man asks without a hint of confusion, analyzing the newcomer, who approaches like a cat stalking an oblivious mouse.

"Not personally, no. Mother left before I was born, after all."

The next second ranks the number three in his scale of Scary Moments, higher than the 'Cybertronian Experience', but below 'Prowl's Breakdown' and 'Not-Really-There Soundwave and Starscream'.

Dark eyes flash white gray for even less than a second before a scowl appears on the scarred Air Commander's face.

"Oh, so _you_ are my _little brother_."

Jazz steps back in fear at the same time Prowl and Soundwave do so, but neither of them does it because of the darkness in the raspy voice.

That flash, that flickering of Starscream's optics, was like a computer downloading new data.

Unable to restrain himself, the Head of Special Operations starts to shake, one hand grasping the cloth over his chilled heart tight enough to pull the shirt taut against his torso.

"I am." Shawn continues like he hasn't even noticed the three men's reactions, straightening almost pompously. "God gifted me with a life in the superior _Iacon_ Protectodome, preparing me for the day I would come here to extend His word and deliver His blessing to all of you pitiful souls."

Starscream breaks out laughing.

"Are you fragging serious? And Commander Storm put me on leave because _I_ had psychical issues? That's hilarious!" The blue-eyed pilot narrows his eyes as his so-called older brother keeps laughing, obviously not pleased by the outburst.

Jazz can't blame the Military Second for laughing, though, and it is only because the shock hasn't cleared yet that he hasn't joined in.

_As if Primus would need someone to deliver His word and blessing._

"You are short-sighted, brother, for how do you explain my coming here, to my old home, to fill _your_ position in your time of need?"

"Maybe because the Supreme Commander asked _Iacon_ for it?" The dark-eyed man answers mockingly, and the other bristles.

"None but God asked for my coming, for if He had deemed it unworthy I would not have left my Protectodome!" Starscream snorts, trying to keep his chuckles at bay but not bothering to hide his too wide sharp smirk. "Blind fool, you bear the markings of His decision upon you, yet you refuse to see!"

Jazz's dying shock returns tenfold, and his jaw falls open in disbelief as he can't look away from the enraged Air Commanders.

The only marks the Military Second bears are the casts on leg and arm and the burn marks on his face, and none of them are 'Godly' in nature.

"Black Beasts were responsible for my injuries. Do you claim to worship _them_?" The raspy voice is low and sibilant, hissing menacingly, and the other returns it with ire.

"Only One is real and only One shall be adored. The Black Beasts are the Devil's pawns, set to end His heritage, but He is all powerful and almighty, and so He chose the worthiest of His children to continue His creation, and the best among them to be the protectors of the people. And you, _dear brother_, are no longer needed by Him. You are not fit as a protector."

Jazz's eyes widen even further, his shaking intensifying to the point he has to clench his fists in order to stop his hands from bouncing, Starscream's burning rage keeping them away from the confrontation despite their urge to help.

"You _dare_."

The Head of Spec Ops feels his blood start to boil, the trembling of his fists being now in response to the same ire the Military officer is almost glowing with.

—_whispers in the street, the pain growing the longer it goes on, and yet they still refuse—_

"You dare throw away the efforts of those who valiantly fought against the monsters by calling them _puppets_?"

The soft buzzing coming from a silently snarling Soundwave fills the room with electric charge, showing that he feels it too, the indignation, the hate…

—_lifeless husks hidden in the shadows, the scavengers fighting for them, for their last resource—_

"You dare classify us, think us different because of who we are?"

Prowl's clenching of his fists is almost louder than his threatening growling, a warning to those that would try to stop him from accomplish his task, from regaining the freedom lost…

—_wise words ignored, the egocentric needs of the few overwhelming the many—_

"You dare judge people by that glitched belief that we are slaves, our future determined before we even come to exist?"

They're all trembling harshly, barely restraining themselves, for they know what will happen if they act, because they won't bow nor will they lose time talking, they will jump at their throats and _dispatch them_…

—_the rumors aren't rumors anymore, and he can't help but feel happy and doubt his loyalties—_

"You dare taint the memory of those who sacrificed themselves for the future?"

Their bodies freeze, the rage so powerful, their muscles so coiled and battle-ready they can't move them to even breath unless they want to snap…

—_there isn't fire anymore, but that only means the uncountable bodies on the ground are visible at last—_

"Taint their sacrifices? Please, it was by His will that they died, useless as they were, hampering the real protectors and endangering the people… They _deserved_ to die."

Starscream's blood red eyes widen almost impossibly, the color dripping down his cheeks and chin with his wavering step, droplets falling, falling, _falling—_

—_quickly and he can only scream as the whole city explodes, the shock-waves slamming—_

—on the floor, but Dexter catches him, Soundwave's limp hands not making a move to clean the blood slipping from his nose, red eyes visible as the glasses rest on the—

—_scorched ground, lifeless husks the only thing left, not even one of the magnificent Towers still—_

—standing thanks to the wall, a hand pressed to one bleeding ear, but Prowl's blue eyes are lost in memories painful enough to—

—_kill everything, not because of him, but the bunch of idiots who thought themselves _better_—_

"—to get away or I'm going to dismantle you and smelt you while making sure you can feel _every instant_ of it."

And the tanned and blue-eyed man does so, stepping away from Starscream's fallen frame, on the opposite direction to where Prowl's slumped against the wall, a tall and uniformed guy keeping his torso upright, not going near where a cherry-blond is supporting Soundwave's limp body either, but Jazz doesn't lower the gun he keeps trained on him, nor does he follow the urge to clear his intakes of whatever warm fluid is starting to fill them, despite the small and young human pleading him to stand down.

When the door opens to let the medical units in, he puts away his weapon and rushes to help his friends, wondering why all his scans and comm system are offline.

* * *

**AN:** First of all, take into account **the opinions of the characters aren't those of the author**. To those who are religious, this is **not** intended as an offense, this is just how the characters are and a bit of world building.

Thing is, there are three main views about religion (a general one, not any specific one) in this world: those who don't believe, those who think this is the Apocalypse, and those who believe this is a Celestial War.

The first would be Starscream's kind and Jazz's, to an extension: They either don't believe in Gods, or they do, but don't think they are 'blessed' or 'cursed' when it comes to Protectodomes and Black Beasts. This is simply another thing humans have to take care of on their own.

The second would be those that think the deity/deities has/have lost faith on humanity and sent the Black Beasts to 'cleanse' the Earth, or something of the like. So, God (or Gods) would be like the Sodom and Gomorrah one (sorry, don't know equivalents for other religions).

And the third, which would be Shawn Reeds', believe the Black Beasts are demons and the humans alive nowadays are those God (or Gods) has (have) blessed/benefited/favorited.

**Angel Heart:** Nice to read from you again! And afraid I don't have a real answer to making scenes fluffy and serious, I just... write, and things happen (usually characters deciding they want to act differently than planned, throwing all semblance of guidelines away). I'm glad you liked the thing with pictures, I was afraid it would end a bit tiring (initially, there was supposed to be only the one with Will and Steve and then talk, but things never happen as I plan them). I didn't think of the scene with Dexter and Jazz as cute... Which is all good, 'cause it looked like it would be an overall angsty chapter, with only the couple of jokes between Jazz and Blake, so I'm glad it wasn't so angst-heavy to the readers.

Jazz is the most instinctive of the four when it comes to the 'different' things, and, with the more they find out, it's becoming harder for all to reconcile both realities, but specially to him (eye color, as you've seen, is one of the things that bugs him the most) so I'm glad the struggle showed.

And yes, new characters! About time I could finally find some place to insert them, and the ones that popped up here. Oh, and I hope you see now that, despite what I tried to make it look like in that scene, they aren't exactly the same (I hope, at least with the Reeds duo, since Raleigh didn't show up here). Also, there goes the answer to the question about Shawn. Raleigh's will come in later chapters.

And I'm glad the chart helps, no matter how many columns there are :) I know it can get confusing, so 'go, chart!' *cheers*

Thanks for everything (x2) and hope to read from you again next week!


	12. Twist

_Only the brightest stars are visible from where he's standing, but he doesn't care, for they aren't the reason he has come here._

_And yet, he can't help but look at them._

_Ever shining yet never judging, not even in such a tumultuous time._

_He can't help the urge to flee, to go away until all is solved, until all has been proven a corrupted memory flux._

_He can't._

_Instead of giving in, he raises a servo to the bright lights over them, reaching for their soothing nature, for their serenity, for their strength._

_The star he's looking at explodes._

* * *

His head lowers as he approaches the hidden door, making sure he's alone before tapping a specific rhythm.

A spyhole opens and he lifts a hand, showing the ring around his index finger, light shining over the engraved characters.

Some clicking later, the door opens and he presses a finger on the handed card, entering after its surface turns green.

Artificially green eyes blink at the darkness to help him see, but he doesn't stop walking in the interim.

After clearing one more checkpoint, the door at the end of the corridor unlocks and he steps blindly into the light.

* * *

_He doesn't move, he doesn't even modify his intake rhythm, despite the agony he's in._

_He doesn't look when he hears voices through the static, knowing too well it will result in more pain if they know he's aware._

_He's surprised they haven't noticed yet._

_They must be busy, distracted, occupied by something else._

_Or someone._

_He suppresses a shudder of both pain and fear and forces his sensory nodes to shut down._

_The lack of agony is a too pressing silence almost worse than the overwhelming signals._

_The static hasn't cleared, so he rises his audials' sensitivity and listens._

* * *

"I have no idea what is going on."

He squeezes the white-clad shoulder reassuringly, but the older man doesn't relax.

The Supreme Commander crosses his arms against his chest, frustration clear on his face, but unneeded to know he's worried.

He's rarely out of the Military Base, so being in the Civilian Government building is a big enough clue.

"I want them back." They look at the man with surprise, but green eyes allow no discussion. "Being off duty hasn't helped." Despite the harsh tone, he knows there's an apology in the look given to him. "I want them back."

* * *

_He lowers his servo slowly, remorseful yet entranced, as the fading bubble of light expands._

_When it vanishes, there's only darkness, another spot of emptiness in the vast space._

_He feels his systems lag at that, and can't help but wonder how long it will be until the same happens in their cities._

_He pushes the despair away, remembering his fellow officers, their efforts, their unyielding determination to not allow such a thing to happen._

_He takes strength from them, from the hope that it's still soon, that they have a chance to set things right before they get worse._

* * *

He puts on the robe given to him, so black it looks devoid of light, and sits on the signaled cushion.

And waits.

The only sounds are those of the last people entering the room and dressing in the ritual clothes.

Even in his head there's only silence.

He has nothing to think about.

Not even the mission.

Surgically whitened hands rest on his thighs, their relaxed fingers not belaying the maelstrom growing in his chest.

Dyed brown hair slips from under the hood to dangle in front of his eyes.

He barely has the time to tug it away.

* * *

_The voices talk of alloys, structural changes, weapon upgrades._

_He doesn't understand._

_So, he turns to his own body, putting self-diagnoses in stand by._

_There's something more urgent he needs to take care of._

_He remembers an annoying yet familiar voice's accusations and complaints, so he turns down his processor activity by putting non-essential systems in stand by._

_Not outright shutting them off, because that would be a blatant way of advertising his awareness, but diminishing the input received._

_His processor is his strongest weapon, his hidden edge._

_He won't let anyone take it away as long as he functions._

* * *

"Do you know the risks of doing that?!"

"And do you know the ones of _not_ doing it?"

He looks between his two oldest friends, unable to take a side.

"What if it happens again?"

"And what if it turns to _his_ people _again_?"

The finger pointing at him isn't accusing, but he flinches.

He's failed his men, his friends, by not ensuring their safety.

Knowing of the situation in the Military, he should have taken measures to ensure it didn't extend to Civilian Government.

But he didn't.

And now, they're in an even worse situation than the Black Day.

* * *

_He looks up one last time at where the dead star was, the void a source of strength now instead of one of despair._

_And then, he turns around and starts to walk._

_He's in no hurry, no calls coming through, no emergency blaring for his attention._

_He has enough in his processor to think about for him to take the journey back slowly._

_And he finds himself worrying, over and over again, about the same topic he's been trying to avoid, about the extinction of a smaller yet not less brighter star on the face of their own planet._

* * *

The man's voice is a droning sound at the edge of his perception, going over the virtues and the blessings of the cult he's about to join.

A cult that worships Black Beasts, and would go so far as to sabotage the Protectodome to fulfill their twisted adoration.

He can't allow that.

He's not allowed to.

He watches the acolytes rise, one by one, to approach the Master and receive the blessing, a single black line crossing their foreheads.

Cold inside, he rises as a hand is extended toward him.

The maelstrom boils stronger as he steps on the dais.

* * *

_Through one of the lines plugged into his helm-ports, he accesses the computers._

_Blueprints of crafts and weapons fill them, but he doesn't dare look deeper._

_Not while the voices are loud around him._

_So, he studies those already up for him to see._

_And shudders inwardly, glad his first reaction is to hide hints of emotion._

_Cybertronian._

_Tetrajets._

_And an incoming stream of data on developing upgrades for both them as a whole and parts._

_The one at the forefront has a detailed list of recent repairs on the cockpit area, as well as another of modifications being applied._

* * *

"They're sabotaging us."

The other two men turn to him, startled out of their debate by his dark voice.

"How so?"

But the Military man knows.

"If they get us, our Seconds take charge."

"If they get our Seconds, our Thirds fill in."

"But if they get both of them…"

"They leave us without a support base, and no replacements in sight."

The medic pales.

"They aren't breaking down the building. They're going for the foundations."

"And once they destroy them…"

"The rest of Governance will follow."

"And the Protectodome soon after it."

The silence is cold, dark and threatening.

* * *

_He feels it before he turns around, before seeing the explosions and being thrown back by the shock-waves._

_He feels it, sees it, hears it, but can't believe it._

_He quickly gets back to his pedes, shouts of disbelief and horror filling his audials, as well as the buzzing of a hailing comm call, but he can't answer._

_And then, his gaze turns skyward to try to find out where the attack is coming from, and it's as if all his sensors have been ripped from his frame, leaving him without more input than that his optics are providing him._

* * *

"Can I ask a last question?"

The hand stops in front of his closed eyes, but he can feel it, feel the confusion of the man and the indignant anger of those at his back for interrupting.

He can almost hear the ink slipping down that blackened finger.

"Of course."

He lifts his head slowly, feeling bangs of curly fake brown bouncing out of the hood once more.

And opens his eyes.

"Did you really think it would work?"

Before anyone can fully process his words, he whirls behind the Master, shielded from the hidden guns, and snaps his neck.

* * *

_He retreats back into his processor as the voices close in to cross out the last of the Tetrajet's modifications._

_And feels the package of data being sent to him._

_It's already decompressing when he secures it into a quickly emptied and quarantined area, information downloading and installing without any problem, but not affecting him._

_The voices don't notice._

_But he does, when he hears them talk about another package, feels it being coded through the connection with the computer._

_He sends a small line to weave with the decompressing orders, modifying them to quarantine the install area before download._

* * *

There are only two left in the room, but the medic doesn't seem to care.

He looks at the closed door one last time before sitting down in front of the desk, worry almost overwhelming him at the sight of the other man, looking older than his age can account for.

"What are you going to do?"

"What _can_ I do? You're right, both of you. And until something is done, the only option is to clear them once they recover from this so that they can train their replacements. Do you think it will get worse?"

"Let's hope not."

* * *

_He moves as fast as his engine allows, but it's still too slow._

_By the time he gets there, it's over._

_The attack, the city, the brothers thought lost, the population…_

_Over._

_He manages to catch a glint of the attackers through the smoke, and it only serves to further chill his core._

_They had helped each other as if they were of the same frame-type. They had shared the same views, the same opinions…_

_And now, their brothers attacked them, demolished their city, obliterated its inhabitants._

_What he'd thought was a black hole had just revealed itself a supernova._

* * *

He dances through the multitude, the borrowed gun having made a quick job of the armed guards, whose weapons he requisitioned and put to a good use in the cleansing.

The screams are static in his ears, the shots barely more than a tingling up his arms, each impossibly precise, perfect.

Warm liquid covers his shoes and weighs down his black robe, but he doesn't slip nor slow.

And when the last gun clicks to tell about an empty chamber, he throws it away, grabs the closest body, and twists the neck with a sharp crack.

He still sees purple.

* * *

_Nothing in the voices tells him if his line has been found, so he takes it as a good sign._

_He hopes it has worked, for the sake of whoever the package was sent to, as he starts to look over the data it installed in his processor._

_Suppression programs, behavioral directives, fake memory data…_

_He shudders in the safety of his processor, and, despite his curiosity, doesn't dwell further in the package, for he's still being closely monitored, and he doesn't want to give himself up._

_Alarms blare loudly and he almost flinches._

_And then, he's forced into stasis._

* * *

Will is so deep in his thoughts, in his worry, that he doesn't hear the hover-cars going past him in the street, not the people talking with each other or into their phones.

Dexter told him about his idea to bring his brother to the Civilian Government building, hoping the familiar environment and the presence of the cherry-blond would help his slow recovery.

Will asked if he could do the same with Steve, and the Communications Officer answered, five minutes later, with a 'bring him in tomorrow'.

More thankful than he's been in a while, he did so.

The subdued Air Commander quickly cheered up once he got him in the lab, and Jack and Percy welcomed him warmly, more so once the four of them got to work.

Not only is Steve an excellent scientist, despite the years of inactivity, but his knowledge of Cybertronian is the biggest asset to their current task there could be.

All was well and good until Jack convinced them to tune in the CGR through their portable radio.

Dexter's happy introductions of the people with him in the Communications Center was enough to shatter their relatively calm working atmosphere.

Jack had just called the cherry-blond when Steve snapped out of his surprised shock and _flew_ out of the lab, so fast was he running.

When Will made it to the door, there was no sign of the Air Commander on the corridor.

Stunned and slightly exasperated, the scientist decided to let him be, someone would show him the way back to the lab when he tired of running around directionless.

And yet, somehow, Steve managed to make it to the Communications Center, and quickly at that.

After the confusing exchange between Blake and the Civilian Third, Will decided to go fetch his friend.

When he got to the room, he found it full of medics and with three unconscious and bleeding officers, one of which was the tanned man himself.

They didn't allow him into the Med Bay, keeping him outside with the Civilian Government Commander, Jazz Smith, Jerry Lee, and a guy so similar to Steve that it gave him goosebumps.

Jack and Percy brought him back to the lab after that, but none of them said anything when he just sat in his chair staring at the table.

Bouncing the bag of groceries a bit higher in his arms, Will shakes his head and stops to take a deep breath.

Last he knows, The Hatchet was called to take a look at them, and, since they're in the Civilian Hospital, it'll be easier to see Steve, more so because he is the one listed as his contact.

Feeling a bit less frantic though not calmer, the scientist takes another step towards his apartment.

And stops at the unexpected _thump_ coming from the alley he's standing in front of.

Curious, he looks into it, and his eyes widen when he sees the lump in front of an open door that is an unmoving man.

Before he can act, another steps out, smaller and leaner, and takes off his long black robe, throwing it to the opposite wall like one would a used tissue.

When the bundle of cloth falls to the ground, a red smear has appeared where it collided.

The man on the ground is _too still_.

Green eyes look into his blue ones from a pale face half hidden by extremely curly brown locks.

Will pales when the man smiles almost happily, and startles when he gestures for him to move to the side.

Before he can, someone pushes him out of the way to run into the alley, and it's only when some more rush past him that he recognizes their uniforms.

Enforcers.

To his utter surprise, though, they don't arrest the formerly black-robed man, who has his head lowered and is rubbing his eyes, but enter the building with weapons up, one of the last stopping next to the guy on the ground—

And startling badly, the hand pressed against the neck moving almost frantically in what Will knows is a search for a heartbeat.

"Sir, you—"

"Yeah, I did." The scientist tenses when the—the _murderer_ answers, revealing himself as a higher ranked Enforcer, but his status isn't the reason he does so.

He recognizes his voice and his now black eyes, green contact lenses resting on the red-stained hand that had been rubbing his face, a small smear of crimson on one cheek.

And he's approaching him.

"William Daryl. Didn't know you'll be by. Know who I am? The guys did a good job giving me a new look, didn't they?" The blond can only nod, looking Third in Command Jazz Smith over, recognizing the features despite the paler skin color.

And balking at the red footprints left behind after each step closer he takes.

Civilian Third in Command _and_ Head of Special Operations of the Enforcers Jazz Smith.

"Sorry to be sending you off so soon, and all that, but we're in the middle of an operation. Would you mind—?"

"Captain Smith?"

The pleasant smile on the strange yet familiar face turns searing cold, and Will takes a step back when the smaller man turns around to face the Enforcer that has just come out of the building, wide-eyed with astonishment and worry.

"Yes?" The voice is pleasant enough, but the scientist shivers.

"What happened?" The now brown-haired man tilts his head, almost like a child that doesn't understand the question.

"What do you mean?"

"The suspects, they're all… dead." The first Enforcer, the one who had stayed outside with the _body_, looks at his coworker with overtly clear surprise and dread.

"Duh, of course." The three men pale at the carefree answer. "Our job was to deal with them so that they didn't endanger the Protectodome. _Now_ they can't, so good job, send in a clean up crew and go home." He adds cheerfully, clapping once, and Will takes yet another step back.

"You killed _over fifty people_ on your own because we were ordered to _deal with them_?" A happy nod answers the blanching man. "Where did you get the gun?"

"There were four guards, each with a six-round gun."

"That only means twenty-four shots…"

"There are a lot more ways to get rid of someone, guys. Broken neck, cracked skull, crushed windpipe—"

The bag of groceries falls to the ground, but Will doesn't care, doesn't hear it nor the rest of Third in Command Smith's words.

He can just lean against the wall and throw up his meager breakfast.

When he finally stops dry-heaving, there's a boyish Enforcer by his side, rubbing his back soothingly as he stares at him with worry.

"—really sorry you found yourself in that mess, sir, are you fine now? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I… I'm better. Thank you." He answers, voice raspy, as the man guides him away from the wall and helps him seat on the back of an Enforcers' hover-car.

"No need to thank me, sir, it's my job. I'm going to the Hospital, and I don't want to impose or anything, but I'd like to get you there too, just in case, because you're not injured or anything, but that has to have been quite a shock and I would feel better if a doctor could look you up. Would you prefer to ride on the front or the back? Because you may have thrown up already, but if you get motion-sick I would like to know, even if you aren't going to throw up in the car, 'cause I don't want to make you feel worse, and I apologize beforehand because all our hover-cars are standard and you're a big guy and you're not going to be comfortable even if you decide to come and don't get motion-sick and—"

"Come on, Phillips, let the guy think." Someone laughs by their side, cutting the young man's tirade, and Will has to shake his head softly to get rid of the buzzing in his ears.

When he looks up at the newcomer, though, his stomach clenches again.

The now paler and brown-haired Jazz Smith.

"Do you get motion-sick?" He can only shake his head at the question, his throat clenched shut at the closeness to a known remorseful and resourceful killer. "Then I would recommend the back seat. You can stretch your legs better if you sit sideways, which, being in an Enforcers' car, won't be punished." He adds chirpily, and he only nods and moves further into the vehicle he's already in. "You drive, Phillips!" And then, to Will's dreadful surprise, he opens the front door and sits in the passenger seat.

"Sure, Jazz—I mean, Sir, yes Sir!"

The door to the back is closed, trapping the scientist inside, before the younger man rounds the car and gets into the driver seat.

The ride to the Hospital passes by in a flurry, Phillips talking non-stop about something or other with the Third in Command answering or butting in from time to time.

When they finally stop in front of the building, Will has managed to calm down enough to convince himself about Captain Smith doing his job, however unorthodox his methods may be, and that his reaction was a big exaggeration due to the fact he's a civilian that the closest he's been to violence is being friends with the Air Commander.

"I thank you for everything, but I'm going to go home." He tells the Enforcers as they get out of the parked car, earning himself startled and curious looks. "It was just the shock of the situation, nothing more, and it's passed by now."

The younger man looks at his superior officer pleadingly, obviously worried about him, and the dark-eyed man winks back at him with a smile.

"Yeah, I get what you're saying, but we would both feel better if you got checked up, so I'm going to propose a deal." He lifts an eyebrow at that, surprised, and nods for the other to proceed. "You come inside and let a medic look you over, and I get you to Reeds."

And Will knows, as soon as the name is out, that he's going to accept the proposal.

Judging by the widening of the smile on that strangely paler face, the Third in Command knows it too.

"Alright, lets get in, shall we?"

Both him and the younger Enforcer follow and wait at a small distance as the Head of Spec Ops talks with the nurse on desk duty.

"I'm Drew Phillips, Enforcer. Nice to meet you!" The smaller man chirps happily, and he returns the smile and shakes the offered hand.

"Will Daryl, scientist for Civilian Government." The other beams at him and opens his mouth, most likely to launch a tirade of questions, but the Third in Command waving them closer stops him before he can even start.

They follow him once more as he enters a corridor, moving like he knows the building by hand while answering Drew's curious inquiries.

Captain Smith knocks on a door after some walking and an elevator ride, and, instead of a voice answering, the door opens.

Will's mouth falls open when he sees Civilian Commander August Prime standing on the other side, as surprised as he is.

When they are ushered inside to meet Ryan Shepherd's scanning gaze, the scientist has reached his limit of surprises.

"And why, pray tell, are you three here?" The doctor asks, getting up from his seat and approaching them.

"I'm here because I had to bring Captain Smith here, and I decided to bring Will too because he overheard and threw up and wasn't looking too good, but he says he feels better now, and the Captain's here because he flew off the handle and killed the suspects."

Silence.

And then, as the rest of the room breaks into a cacophony of shouts and questions, Will lowers himself into the closest available chair, feeling sick again.

"_Enough_!"

Silence falls once more as everyone stares at the scientist in surprise, but he doesn't care, he's just grateful their loud voices aren't aggravating his growing headache anymore.

"So, can you give him a check up? I promised him he'd be able to see the Air Commander after that." The Third in Command asks nonchalantly.

The Hatchet doesn't answer, but he's kneeling in front of the larger man the next instant, shining a light in his eyes and taking his pulse.

"You killed the suspects?" Civilian Commander Prime talks softly, but it's easily audible in the silence.

"Fifty-three people. Twenty-four dead by gunshots, six through the heart and the rest through the head; twelve—"

"Not now." The doctor growls as Will pales, the hand on his forearm squeezing reassuringly, and Phillips falls silent.

"I know the orders were to get inside, find the needed evidence, and get them once the ceremony was over, but I had the chance to do something, so I acted."

"By _killing_ them? Jazz, they—"

"Were supposed to be taken in and questioned? I think not." And the room grows cold at the menacing answer, enough to make Shepherd and Will look up at the Civilian officers, a nervous Phillips twirling his thumbs near the door and biting his lower lip. "There was no way I was going to let those terrorists get out there fully functional. We have enough slag to deal with to add more to it." There's a couple of seconds of heavy silence before a soft smile appears on the Third in Command's face once more. "Now, can I go see how my boss is doing? And if you're finished with Daryl, can he come too? They're still in the same room for monitoring, right?"

Shepherd doesn't answer, not immediately, but, after what seems an eternity, he nods and stands up.

"Just try not to put him in shock again with more morbid stories." He says nonchalantly as he waves the scientist away, and the Head of Spec Ops quickly grabs his arm and guides him out of the room.

The walk is short and silent, though not as unpleasant as Will had thought it'd be.

The reason is the skip in the shorter man's step, the happiness and eagerness to see Second in Command Fowler, that make him seem younger and, despite the day's events, innocent.

He doesn't know if it's all a ploy, but he's willing to play along this time.

There are four beds in the room, none hidden by the dividing curtains, but only three are occupied, the Military officers on one side and the Civilian Second in front of them.

Two of them are awake, and Captain Smith quickly lets him go as he moves to the Commander-in-Chief's bedside, confused green eyes looking at the approaching man.

"Hey there, boss. Don't let your sight trick you, I'm Jazz. Just came from an insight job, so that's why I look like—Oomph!" The scientist blinks in surprise, mouth falling open, as the Second in Command pulls his fellow officer in a bone-shattering hug, eyes closed tightly and face half buried in the now brown-haired man's shoulder. "Easy, I'm here. I'm fine, we all are, and you are too." The Head of Spec Ops returns the embrace and keeps talking, though so softly that he can't catch his words anymore.

Feeling a bit like a stranger, he goes to Sanders' side, and the bedridden man looks up at him with half-lidded blue eyes, ruffled blond hair and too pale skin.

All in all, he looks exhausted.

"How do you feel?" He asks softly, and the other sighs tiredly.

"Been better." But there's the smallest of smiles on his lips, and the scientist returns the gesture.

Grumbling from the third occupied bed makes them all look at the slowly awakening Air Commander, and Will quickly goes by his side.

When dark eyes open, they look up at him with confusion before that becomes annoyance.

"What did I do this time?" He rasps, and the taller man laughs as quietly as he can, feeling relief fill him.

"You gave your bro a speech so passionate that it slagged us all." The Civilian Third answers with a wide smile, and the scientist blinks at the strange word.

Slang, most likely, or a variation of a curse word to not clue children in.

"A speech that what?" Steve asks, also lost by the choice in vocabulary, and the other three tense with an intensity that makes Will want to wince in reflected pain.

"Just… you followed the sound waves and then Shawn Reeds showed up…"

"Yes, I know my brother was there, now, can you stop talking in riddles, Captain Smith?"

"My… apologies."

And the room falls silent, with the Civilian officers exchanging blank looks and the Communications Officer shaking softly in his bed, eyes closed with a small frown as if trying to push away some kind of pain.

When Shepherd comes to check on them, Will goes away, feeling guilty at his relief when he exits the tension-filled room.

* * *

**AN:** Hi there, people! Surprise update!

Reason? I'm happy :) And I've got next chapter done and polished, and the second next lacks only some details before being given a once over... So yeah, I decided not to leave you all hanging with what happened to the guys.

Even if this chapter is... well :P

Funny fact: All the small sections at the beginning are exactly 100 words. The first three wrote themselves that way, and I thought it looked nice, so, since the rest weren't much shorter/longer, I modified them to be alike. Hope you figured the pattern out, though don't hesitate to ask any and all questions that may pop up.

Hope you all have a nice week, and until next Saturday!


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